


RAGE

by Spicymayomagi



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Sacrifice, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bisexuality, Biting, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Catholic Guilt, Christianity vs. Hellenism, Cults, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Gang Rape, Gang Violence, Gangs, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Pack Orgies, Past Rape/Non-con, Possible Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Cults, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, Sexual Violence, Shameless Smut, Squirting, Torture, Witchcraft, basically there’s a lot of weird and horrible things in this fic, but also please do kill me idfk, dont kill me, gay love/sex, lesbian love/sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 23:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19841050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spicymayomagi/pseuds/Spicymayomagi
Summary: Dionysus, having discovered a girl kidnapped in the back of someone’s car, finds a way to relieve his boredom. (Book 1 of my series “Martyrdom”.)





	1. Dionysus’ Depression

His backbone arched as he stretched against the railing, a yawn expanding his mouth. To anyone who bothered looking, he may as well have become an alley cat, and to be fair, he felt like one, too. 

Colossal skyscrapers, illuminated from within so that each window glittered, giving off the appearance that the orange-black sky was being pierced by spears of gold mosaic. Across the sidewalk, traffic lights blinked every so often on an empty street. Dionysus sniffed. That was the issue. 

Don't mistake him, Dionysus wasn't the most troublesome of the gods—certainly not. Ares had become so erratically restless of late that he'd been frequenting trips to the Middle East. That's where all the current chaos is, anyways. Sometimes, when Dionysus was in a more melancholy mood, he entertained the idea of joining him. Usually he keeps his violent tendencies to a minimum: animal sacrifices, bacchanals, orgies and all that. Really, it's a bit of a wonder that there are still those who believe in him in this era. More than you'd think, that's for sure. And as swell as all that is, right now Dionysus is thinking wistful thoughts.

He swirled his half bottle of merlot. He was so in the mood to watch a chariot race, a gladiator match, bull jumping. The bloody kind, or a knife fight, or something. But for some dumb reason—he can't really care to recall—he ended up in this city. Cincinnati, probably one of the most boring cities in the States. Not a single knife fight in sight, and the bars were just terrible. Low maintenance, no class at all...  
It was only what, 2 something in the morning? He was only about 30 something drinks in, and he wasn't all that drunk, really he wasn't. They kicked him out, anyways. And he probably would have smote them, except he's not one to care much, especially right now. The guys in there were loud as hell, anyways. Just a group of teenagers, not that much to look at, but they sure acted tough. Dionysus loved humans like that. They were an interesting bunch, really stupid and all. Kind of like Ares. A breathy chuckle slipped through Dionysus' dry lips, a tongue snaking out to lick them hungrily. Maybe a few pranks would shake him out of this daze, help him loosen up a bit. They looked the type to get easily riled up. They also looked the type that could do with walking home. A cat-like grin already spreading across his face, he slipped from the railing and, as if melting into the shadows, slunk unseen towards the parking lot. 

———

The car wasn't hard to trace. Boys like that—gangster-looking ones—had a certain essence you couldn't mistake. Except this one was particularly smelly, Dionysus thought as he stood in front of a blood-red Mercedes Benz. It was a pretty cool car. C-class, brand new. If he were Hermes, he'd probably be formulating strategies on stealing it, rather than what Dionysus was about to do. 

Maybe it was because he was slightly drunk, but he couldn't help but stifle a hysterical giggle as a pack of illegal fireworks formed in the grip of his hand. Yes, yes, it's terribly original. If he was feeling really creative, he might have summoned a panther or 2. He'd have loved to see the look on the owner's look when he found a midnight black beast lounging around in the front seat of his beloved Mercedes. Sure, there'd be a wild animal loose in the city, but in fairness it was a horribly boring city, so they'd might as well thank him. Except he wasn't totally in the mood right now. No, a classic little exploding would do the trick. 

He ambled his way around the perimeter of the car. It was a bit of a dilemma, as to whether or not the rocket should go in the backseat or or simply under the fuel filter. Dionysus pondered this for a moment. He wasn't so much in the mood for bloodshed. A supposed bombing of a car carrying several teenage boys would definitely draw a lot of attention, and besides, he didn't want to get into the car. He could unlock it with just a snap of his fingers, but he just didn't want to sit in there, that's all. This aura really was... pungent. 

After a minute he decided. He'd just latch it under the fuel filter. He'd watch from a distance, probably over there by that tree, and right when they were drawing close, he'd snap his fingers, and...

The rocket stuck just fine by itself, he just needed to put it there. Squatting on his haunches, he ducked his head just to check. The rocket was wedged snugly against the filter, the way lovers cuddled together. No rope seemed needed. Simpering a grin, Dionysus rose halfway to his feet when he froze. 

Holding him rooted to the spot was a pair of enormous eyes, staring at him from the backseat window. 

A girl.


	2. The Kidnapped Girl

If he were a normal mortal, he'd probably do something like jump, give a cry of alarm, run away or whatever the average mortal man would have preferred when faced with a ghost inside the car he meant to tamper. Instead he stared straight back at her. 

And a ghost she was—well, not literally. Actually, a more fitting description would be a sallow bone sack with eyes. She reminded Dionysus of the little ones in Africa, with their scabby, ashen skin stretched taut over spindly limbs. Beehives with heads and scrawny legs. Puffy dry lips that, although he could not fill them with hope, it was a fetching sight to see them slight with madness and adoration for him. His secret cults in Africa that recognized his divinity straight away, just as they should've. That's what he loved about 3rd and 4th world countries, really he did. White people, drunk on tech, were boring. 

It was no different with this girl. She cowered, hunched over in the corner seat as if to shrink. She looked pocket-sized in the marker-stained Jersey she wore, which actually seemed to be her only article of clothing from the waist down. That was alright, though. It wasn't as if her legs made for great eye candy, twisted-looking as they were. Mottled with all sorts of ugly colors that legs shouldn't be, like blue and green and gray and angry red. Somehow Dionysus had the feeling that they were once very pretty legs. 

Right now? The girl had definitely seen better days. Part of her face was covered in a gray-maroon baseball cap, but what else he observed in further detail omitted a pin drop in his stomach. Her hair was brown, not black. It hung greasily around her bony shoulders like dead snakes. Her swollen eyes were nearly the same color, except for a few splotches of sick evergreen. They were abnormally large for her sallow face, but Dionysus found them particularly appealing. They made her look like she just downed an entire bottle of vodka and was about to battle a grizzly bear to the death. He was always partial to those sort of eyes, he really was.

He gave a smile as docile-looking as he could manage, tapping his fingertips lightly against the window like the way a cheeky kid would. That always seemed to make his admirers swoon, but she only gaped as if he'd grown the third eye. If even possible, she shrunk even further into her seat. She trembled violently. Dionysus stood back and blew a drunken breath into the frosty sky. He couldn't picture being difficult at that age—probably. It was a million years away from the now, where plenty of folks were kidnapped but, Gods, if you're going to abduct someone, at least do it right! He had to shake his head. Mortals these days didn't put in half the effort as they used to. The ghostly image of a man's horrified face morphing grotesquely into that of a dolphin made Dionysus want to smile. Yeah, those were good times. Dolphins were the solution to everything... oh, yeah. 

Bending down, a mischievous gleam sparkled in his eyes. He reckoned this one wouldn't fancy getting turned into a dolphin, but even a fake one usually sufficed. He breathed hotly against the glass, a web of fog spreading in a neat white white circle. Briskly, his finger glided through the layer till he'd drawn a near-perfect cartoon dolphin. He blew against it again, except that a word managed to wisp out along with it: 

"Live." 

The dolphin twitched to life like a cartoon, tiny shrill cries vibrating through the windowpane, which it melted out of as soon as the white fog disappeared. Only that the dolphin didn't disappear too. It had squeezed out of its mold, and now swam in circles inside the backseat, making jovial clicking noises that sounded like the tinkering of broken glass. 

The girl's wide eyes followed it, her mouth slack open in total awe. For a moment, she lay totally still, as if not to even breathe. Then, slowly, she inched a tad out of her corner. Her neck raised to see it better, hands reaching out gingerly. The little dolphin seemed to giggle as it ghosted through her trembling fingers. A small shiver rumbled through her body. Her lips twitched upward into a sort of incredulous smile. Her eyes shown with wonder and her toes curled. It was sort of an endearing sight, but then again, weren't they all? 

He hardly had any time less than 5 seconds before he heard laughter. 

It was that same obnoxious ribald laughter that rang after his ears when he was being pulled out of the bar. It was still a little ways off—faint—but for a stupid moment Dionysus panicked. The little cartoon dolphin dissipated into fog just at the moment that the girl had actually worked up the courage to reach out and touch it. She let out a mute squeak, startled. He might've felt a little bad about it, but this interesting sequence of events had suddenly took a sort of urgent turn. As he squatted, natural instinct took over immediately. When he blinked again, his hands had become gray coal paws. He could've snorted. A tabby. But there was no time to be admiring his lovely spots. Sneaking under the car was much easier this way, but he had to stretch his neck to retrieve the rocket. Holding things in your mouth was undignified too, but let's face it, when hadn't Dionysus been undignified?  
By the time he'd pulled it free, he could spot them rounding the corner. They were such young looking boys, too young to be doing things like kidnapping girls. Still, there they were, cackling like a pack of smoking hyenas. It was both funny and tragic. 

"Hey," one said suddenly as they drew close. He stopped, a small and skinny boy with skin the color of low-fat milk. His hair was huge and unruly and red, like it had been attacked with Cheeto spray. His small eyes focused for a moment and they locked gazes. Dionysus scratched an ear with his hind leg. The boy laughed. "Check out ole' puss over there!" 

The rest of them doubled over with laughter as the Cheeto boy knelt forward, holding out his fingers. 

"Here, pussy." He crooned, then yelped comedically as a taller boy kicked his backside. He was a tall one with shoulders that seemed a mile apart, clad in a leather-padded coat. He had his dirty blond hair slicked back into a cool do, a square chin, big nose and cruel eyes. There was something about him that was familiar. A strange and distant familiar that Dionysus couldn't recall, but he felt like laughing at the boy's supposedly bad boy demeanor. 

"Quit dicking around." The boy snapped, very obviously not amused. "My bro will get pissed off if I don't get the car back by sunset." 

"'Aight, 'aight..." Cheeto boy struggled over himself to get up, his drunkenness evident. 

"Yo," another one said, "What's that thing in it's mouth?"

"Go check yourself. I ain't getting no cat aids." 

The remark made Dionysus bristle a little, but he let the rocket plop to the ground and scampered away. No way was he gonna let them put their grubby mortal fingers on him. Sure, he was nasty but he wasn't that nasty. 

A boy with black hair scoffed. "Y'all are ridiculous." 

He went to go scoop up the rocket. Once he'd turned it this way and that, the others gathered around to get a good look. 

"What is it, bro?"

"Oh shit, bro! Isn't it, like, one of those illegal firework thingies? Like the kind that Mexican cha-chas throw over the wall?" 

"Don't be retarded. What's it doing here, anyways?" 

"Fuck, you think I know? Shit. I'm pretty damn sure this is the real deal, man." 

The dirty blond looked up from his phone. "Give it here." 

The gang stepped aside for him as he snatched the rocket up. He stared at it with uninterested eyes, hefting it side to side for a solid fee seconds. Finally he said, 

"Sure, it's pretty real." 

"Aw, fuckin' sick!" Utters of excitement were exchanged between the boys. 

"Hey, Flynn, we should fire this into Mrs. McCormick's yard. Burgers if we can shoot that annoying ass rabbit." 

The dirty blond—Flynn—seemed to be contemplating this. He turned the rocket over and over subconsciously. A wickedly cold glint gleamed in his eye. 

"Nah," he muttered, glancing at the car. "I've got a better idea." 

From where Dionysus stood, he could see all the boys piling into the car, and then they were speeding away. When he was absolutely sure he wasn't going to get run over—honestly he really was immortal. Didn't mean it didn't hurt—he padded out of the shrubbery. His eyes lingered on the lot the Mercedes had been sitting in. A purr tumbled inside his feline jaw. Sure, he'd been robbed of a perfect prank, but in the end he didn't mind. 

This was so much more... interesting.


	3. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: WARNING!!! This part may be a major trigger warning, especially to those experiencing depression, trauma, anxiety, etc. If you don't like it then you can just skip to the next chapter.  
> Or if you can handle it just sit back and read in abject horror on the predicament of our main character :)

Bridget

This is a bad dream. 

When we were moving houses, me and my brother found this wine bottle that we would put lady bugs into, the ones we would find in all the houses we visited. We'd put even the dead ones in. I don't know why, we just did. Somehow I thought that they would be much happier together than they were when they were scattered in the dusty, vacant houses.  
By the time we'd found our perfect house, the bottle was crammed. The glass had somehow been cracked all over. It always looked like it was about to disintegrate in your hands, but somehow it wouldn't. We opened it onto our new driveway and poured all the bugs out. 

By that time, the most of them were dead. 

I forgot about it for a long time, I guess, but somehow I'm remembering it now. Thinking about it makes me cry. Why? I guess... because I feel very much like that bottle, those ladybugs. I feel so sorry that I ever put them in that position, which may very well be the position I'm in right now. Have been, for days. 

Between my legs it hurts. Days ago, it was a powerful pain, diseased. Stinging. Like I'd been impaled with knives. My God, it hurt so bad. Now I feel somewhat relieved. In a very sick way. Sure, it's still there, but the pain feels hollow, far away and dull. 

My eyes linger on random places of the room. It's his bedroom, I think, or some place he rented out from his super rich brother. It's fancy, or must've been at some point. The entire west wall is made of glass window. You can see the entire city of Cincinnati from up here 13 floors high. The carpet's littered with beer stains, trash, fluids. Packs of opened alcohol and chewing gum are stacked on the corner table. The bed's probably the cleanest thing here. Mussed up sheets littered with cigarette ash, but it looks warm. But I don't dare. Because I smell so incredibly bad that I'm not being outright raped anymore and Flynn makes me sleep on the floor, on top of a few newspapers and a single blanket, like a dog. 

I feel like a dog. 

Finally, my eyes rest on the rocket right next to me. Bloody, the cone end covered in discharge and spit. He came home with that early this morning, with all the other guys who felt like watching. I can't tell which makes me more ill, the memory or the smell of my own fluids. The eyes. I don't know what gave him the idea of where he even got the thing but I don't care. I... I just want to be left alone, have just a little time to myself. He's in the other room now with his friends, watching TV. 

Shivering, I curl into a ball. I don't feel good. I mean, I definitely haven't felt good in a long while but right now I feel really sick. My stomach hurts. I want to go to the bathroom and I would, I really would, but if you could see me then you'd realize why it wasn't so simple. I've been beaten severely, I think. Every part of me is in pain. You want to know how bad? Over the last month I've started a habit of counting the marks on my skin, and now counting today, it's much easier to count the spots that haven't been marred that the ones that have. I've become a quilt of stitched skin, patches of all the most ugly colors you could think of. All fleshy and bleeding. Ill. I can't move at all, it feels like. If I do, then I'll have to come back into my body and I'll feel all the pain in the world and I don't want that. I really, really don't.  
But I try anyways. In this moment, because it's dire. And I immediately regret it. My legs are probably broken or sprained or something. There are cigarette burns in between my thighs that sting. My toes are bloody and blue and I forget why. 

"Ah," an audible suck of hard breath heaves through me and suddenly I feel like throwing up. He kicked me a lot of times and I don't feel right. Like my stomach's in my chest cavity and my liver's in my womb. I stop moving. I... I can't do it. The bathroom's across the room, just right there but I just can't do it. It hurts too much. I want to cry but I can't. I've already cried so many times. I think my eyes are going to burst. It's too much. I can't do this anymore. I'm too sick. I want to go home. 

The sound of laughter falters and pulses. I can hear the sound of footsteps padding. The door freaks and I tuck my chin into my knees. Here it comes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter, I’d like to clarify that some of these chapters will be told from Bridget’s first person perspective, just because I feel it’ll make you feel more understanding to how she feels at times. You can tell it’s being told then when I put her name in the corner of the chapter.  
> Anyways, yes, Bridget is a girl that is being held captive and tortured by a group of teenage gangsters. The reason, as of now, is unknown, but I would like to hear how you feel about this predicament that she’s in. Why she’s here, how she could escape, etc. Write your speculations in the comments. Thanks for reading this chapter :)


	4. The Surprise

He inhaled the smoke, waited a beat, then exhaled. The white puffs floated listlessly into the black sky. 2:15 am. It was nice and cool out, not too windy. Great for public sex.  
Dionysus leaned, totally naked against the terrace railing. Down below, the city buzzed with hot activity. Neon signs flashed images of clothes, coffee, cash. People in stylish outfits stalked up and down the crosswalks, shiny cars flashing and honking at each other. 

Dionysus sighed, more smoke dribbling from his mouth. He twiddled his cigarette carelessly between his fingers. He couldn't help it, really he couldn't. After the previous night's endeavors his mind was abuzz with all manners of schemes. Wild hazel eyes blinked at him through his mind's eye and he felt a strangely heavy mix of pity and excitement, in the way that one would discover a mistreated puppy. How could anyone neglect a puppy? Everyone loves puppies. 

"What're you thinking about?" Mary was rolling around on the silk of the mattress, looking bored, the bottle of blackberry noir laid aside and long-forgotten. Dionysus shrugged. 

"Not much." 

"Tell me something." 

"Like what?" 

"Something interesting." She pleaded. "Where'd you run off to yesterday?" He flicked away the cigarette. Sighing heavily, he flopped onto the mattress. He reached out, tucked a strand of auburn hair back under her ears. 

"What's so great about it?" He smiled a lazy smile. "You're still so young. You've yet to travel the world, but you want to hear what I'm doing?" 

"It's much better when I'm with you." Mary insisted. "You've always got interesting stories." 

"That's 1700s gentleman's talk. If you want juicy gossip then read a newspaper. Don't you have a story to tell me?" 

She gave him suspicious eyes. "If I tell you one then you'll tell me?" 

"I could." A smirk threatened to break across his face. He waved a hand. "Come on, don't you girls do anything cool by yourselves? I don't mind, you know." 

"Ok, fine." She was laying flat on her back, eyebrows tense in concentration as she glared at the sky. A swift breeze caught in the air, coaxing her bright nipples to harden into peaks. She tapped her lips. "Well, we were out shopping the other day, me and Catherine and Titus. There was this big sale going on downtown. It was insane, people were screaming and shoving and I'm pretty sure this one girl on crutches fell. Can you believe that?" 

"Sounds like a Kpop concert." 

"I know, right?! Anyways we were all set to go, and then out of nowhere, Titus grabs this one jacket—oh, Dionysus. You would've cried. It was cheetah-print Vogue."

"Are you serious." 

"Dead serious! And she stole it. It was lucky because of all the commotion, but we were telling her she shouldn't, but of course she did anyways. You should've seen the grin on her face! She doesn't even like animal print. I'm pretty sure she just did it to piss you off." 

"Of course she did. Well, she's going to show it to me and then we'll see who's laughing." 

Mary raised her eyebrows. "You have some sort of plan in mind?" 

"Maybe later." 

"Oh, also, I was talking to Flora. She hasn't told anyone else yet, but she wants to open a gelato truck." 

"Really?"

"Yeah, a really fancy one! You know, like the ones they photograph on Tumblr." 

"Wow, that sure is fancy." 

"Mm." She sighed, arms retracting and stretching. "I'd like to help her with that. We all would, I think. It could be, like, a group project or something." 

"I'll pitch in too, as long as you have some matcha-flavored selections." 

"Obviously." Mary laughed, then abruptly froze as if remembering something vital. She glared at him. "You need to tell me what you were doing yesterday!" He made the mock effort of scooting away, but she clamped both hands around his arm. He bursted in laughter. "You said you'd tell me!"

"No," he chuckled. "I said I could. How about this? I took a caravan to India, rented an entire fancy hotel, and partied my guts out with tigers and street youths while sampling only the finest of curry and soju wine. I also made love with an Indian beauty on a feather bed." 

"Dionysuuuus! You already told me that last time." He sighed dramatically. 

"But I'm not sure if I want to." 

"But you promised." Her frown deepened for a second, then her eyes brightened just a little, maybe from mischief. She brought his hand to her face, his knuckles to her lips. She game him that submissive, adoring expression that any sensible god would jizz over. "Please, my Lord?" Her voice was silky sweet. Dionysus swallowed. He never had the greatest resolve, he really didn't. He and Mary were similar in that sort of light, he supposed. 

"If you're so bent on knowing," he sighed. "I was in Ohio. Cincinnati." 

"She looked bemused, suspicious, even. "Cincinnati? Why?" 

"Not sure. I was drinking. But I found something interesting." 

"Like what?" He sat up, his attention riveting on the commotion down below. Someone got in a car accident. A taxi driver, a man and his daughter. She was the only one injured—a hurt arm—probably. The father was livid. You could hear his screeching all the way from where they were. Dionysus contemplated. 

"I won't tell." He decided aloud. He could feel Mary's scowl burning into the back of his head. He raised an arm in defense. "Don't get mad. It'll be a lot better if I just show you." She attacked him with a hug from behind. 

"When? Now?" She said excitedly. 

"Not now, but soon. I have a feeling." The thing was, it was never about just being a hero and rescuing the victim and whatnot. Somehow Dionysus was feeling that age-old feeling, the one that weighs like cold iron in your stomach: the foreboding. Cold wind blew, lights flashed. The sound of a siren echoed closer. Down below, police cars and an ambulance flooded the scene. From the terrace below, a dog yapped.


	5. Eat Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!!! This part is... gross. I've written my share of torture but this is a new level for me. So like, you already know something bad's about to happen, so if you're squeamish or don't like what I'm dishing out, feel free to skip over this chapter.

Bridget

I wish someone would crack a window. All the boys are smoking something that's not entirely cigarettes, I don't think. Whatever it is, it's making me woozy. That's a very bad thing, because I'm in a horrible way right now. I still haven't gone to the bathroom. I've held it off for what, several hours? Atomic bombs are going off in my stomach, sweat slicks against my body—the whole deal. There've been 10s of 100s of times in my life when I had a belly-ache, but it was never as bad as this. I suspect it's because that's the place I've been struck so many times. 

I try to think of something else, try to assure myself that it will definitely pass. It has to. It has to. Flynn's at the table gambling, chatting with his buddies about... something. I'm in too much pain to really pay attention. "My dad's probably got a harem going in Morocco." That's the only thing I hear. 

Finally I can't bear it. I feel like I'll die if I don't. "Flynn." I call out, voice quivering. "Flynn?" He shoots an annoyed glare at me, which I flinch at. 

"I... I need to go to the... bathroom." He makes a weirded-annoyed face, scoffing. 

"Uh, yeah? So? Go, then." I hesitate. 

"But Flynn... my-my legs really hurt. I need you to help me." 

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ." He rolls his eyes at his friend, pointing at me. "You see this crap? Gets a little beatdown and now she's a cripple." Nonchalantly, he blows a puff of smoke from his cigarette. "Go yourself." 

"B-but Flynn..." he shoots dangerous eyes at me, I'm rendered silent. I look around the room helplessly, as if meeting the eyes of one of the boys would somehow influence them to have pity on me, help me—even a little. Big surprise: none of them care. The ones who do look at me scoff and turn away. My whole body deflates, dejected. Then another spasm of pains takes over me and I curl into a roly-poly position. I suck air through my teeth, emitting a silent groan of pain. God, they're getting even worse. I can't recall the last thing I ate, so I don't know why this is happening to me, other than that I'm the most unlucky girl in the whole world. And no one will help me. I have to get to the bathroom myself somehow. 

I start to crawl at a snail's pace. I don't think I can stand any faster, or else I might break apart. The carpet chafes the cuts on my thighs. It burns so badly and, mixed with the quiet snickers from the other boys, tears sting my eyes. I try to block it out, only focus on my one destination of privacy. It's only a stone's throw away. But for someone like me, who is probably crippled for life now, it's to me as an elephant crossing the Appalachians. My little journey is burdened even more by the spastic pains in my stomach, where the pain is so great it's almost paralyzing. For sure, giving birth is like this, if not even a little less painful! I'm sweating like I've never sweated before. I'm not getting anywhere at all. I won't make it. 

Already I can feel it coming. No. Oh, God, no. Please, I'm stripped naked already. I can't go to the bathroom in front of all these guys. And especially not diarrhea. I start panicking. "Flynn!" I blurt. "Flynn, please, I'm gonna—," 

"For fucks sakes!" He roars, slamming down his deck of cards and standing up. "You can't even go to the fucking bathroom by yourse—,"

And then, I erupt. 

I don't even realize it's happening—I'm so scared and it happens so horrifyingly quickly—only that there's a harsh burning down there but in my stomach, the war has eased somehow. And... there's a smell. Something hot and mushy and gross underneath me, squishing out. And I was making complete eye contact with him as I was doing it. I lay there, completely still, frozen in absolute mortification—I think that he's almost as horrified as me—as all the guys in the room bolt up simultaneously like tidal waves, some running out of the room while pretty much everyone else backs away, saying, "ewww!" 

I just pooped. In public. Tears, horrible stinging tears down my face without my feeling them. God, oh God, why am I still here? Why do I have to endure this? Even this is unthinkable. Any little dust-mite of respect I had just yeeted itself out the window. I want to disappear so badly right now, you would never have any idea how much. 

"Oh. My fucking. God." He whispers, eyes wide. "You did it. You actually fucking did it." I am sweating in sheer terror. 

"I'm sorry!" I blubber stupidly, trying to remember there was a good reason why I pooped on the floor. "I'm really, really sorry! I couldn't get to the bathroom. I-I needed help, I asked you..." He stares at me numbly for seconds, each one adding on to my fear. Then his face twists savagely. 

"What kind of autistic retard just shits in the middle of the fucking floor?!" He shouts. He thunders towards me. I cry out as he stoops down and grabs a iron fistful of my greasy hair. Pain explodes across my scalp. He throttles me until tears spill. "Huh?! Are you fucking RETARDED?!" I sob. 

"But I told you! I told you I needed to go badly bu-but you didn't listen to me!" Finally he let go of me, but shoved me so hard I sprawled against the wall. I cough harshly. Through a blur of tears I catch his eyes glinting in that terrible way they do.  
"Someone should've potty-trained you. You're way too old to be wearing diapers." The other boys laugh. The sound of it echoes in my ears. 

"I do know how to use a toilet!"

"Obviously you don't. You should be punished, and I think I know just the way." Ice-cold dread fills me. He nods his head to the pile of diarrhea. "Eat it." I gawk at him, horror filling me to the brim. He can't be serious. And yet, he's looking at me in that expectant way. Everyone else in the room starts hooting and they shuffle around us, eager to watch the show. My hands are clammy and quivering. 

"You can't..." I manage weakly. His jaw ticks. 

"This ain't an option, you retarded bitch. Do it or else I'll make you lick the floor clean." 

"Don't." I'm sobbing now. Real tears are coming down my face. Snot dribbles down. "Please don't make me, please." Please. Please. Please. His foot slams down on my head and I land nose first into the pile of fresh poop. 

I remember when I thought mom's broccoli tots were the worst thing in the world. When they tell you in school that smelling something is just as bad as tasting something, they are lying. It squishes into my nostrils, choking me. I don't want to eat it. I don't. I don't. But he crushes harder and harder on me and I can't breathe, so the only thing left is to... eat it. I can't describe it, it's too horrible. I puked in my mouth as soon as my tongue touched it. Simply put, it's wet, mushy, but also somehow crumbly like a wet cookie. And it tastes... like shit. Every mouthful I nearly wretch, only that I wouldn't be made to eat that too. Our spectators laughed, cringed and said, "Gross!" in such amused ways I wanted to spit what was in my mouth at them. I take back what I said prior, now my respect was completely run out. I try not to think about what I'm doing. If mom and dad could see what's happening now—no, don't think about that, either. Poop is probably a delicacy in other countries, Bridget...

I've eaten the whole pile and I'm allowed to sit up again. It's all around my mouth, too. I have to steel myself with all I have not to vomit it all back into Flynn's smug face—even though I want to. I hate him. I try to scoot away when he says, "The floor, too. You didn't do it by yourself." I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I cry and, doing my best to disconnect myself to my surroundings, I lay down and lick the floor. I do it until he finally says, "good girl." And he kicks me lightly away. As I crawl back to my corner, I hear them taunting me with overdone eating and farting sounds. I claw at my face, trying to scratch off all the poop from my tongue. I curl into a ball and cry.  
I cry for such an innumerable amount of time, it's about evening when I manage to forget my once-again upset stomach and, somehow, pass out.


	6. The Vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to say last chapter was probably the most gross this story will get. So if you did manage to read it over, congrats and you’ll do just fine throughout.

Bridget

I'm tied naked with my hands and my ankles together, in the air, like a pig. There's a thick ball of cloth stuck in my mouth. It tastes like poop. I can't breathe. There's a bunch of boys crowded around me. They jostle each other, as if trying to get a good look at an animal in a zoo. They laugh at me. They throw cigarette butts at me. And then they take their thingies out of their pants and they start peeing on me. I cry because it gets in my eyes and it burns and it stinks. I try to struggle out of the ropes but all they do is burn against my skin.  
Look at me now, a dirty pig wriggling around in a pool of pee. It's all so horrible I want to die. I want to die. I want to die. 

The crowd parts like a Red Sea, with Flynn in the middle. He has a spiked bag in his hands. I choke on the gag in terror. He walks down the aisle slowly, the tip of it scraping languidly against the ground. He has that horrible smile on his face, so I know he doesn't mean to kill me. He swings it around side to side, flecks of blood and cockroaches flying off it. I flounder again but it's no use. No matter how hard I thrash he comes closer, closer, closer. His footsteps echo until he's right above me. From this angle he looks gaunt and ugly. His face distorts until he looks like a demon. Like the devil. In a wide arc, he swings the bat down. It lands for my head, right between my eyes. I scream through the gag. Nooo!!!

Then it all explodes. A bright light films my vision. Flynn and all his cronies have disappeared. They've dissolved into pillars of... flowers. Lots of them blow through the air, emitting a shockingly pretty scent. The ropes and the gag fall away suddenly, as pliable as butter and I fall splat. I spit out the nasty taste. Sweet breeze swirls around me, feels glorious against my damaged skin. I manage to sit up, dazed. Petals fall around like rain, red and purple and yellow. 

"Pretty girls should have pretty dreams." 

I feel a weight on my head. I look up, it's a hand. A man stands above me, the most beautiful man I've ever seen in my whole life. Even more beautiful than the models in the magazines my friends like to ogle at. He has dark curly hair, ivory skin—yet somehow radiating gold. The look in his eyes is dark, intense. Not like the eyes of the werewolf guy in the Twilight posters, but in a different way. A somehow familiar ancient feeling tugs in my gut. His fingers are hot as they knead my scalp in a strangely affectionate manner. A shiver runs through me. I shuffle away from him. 

"Who're you?" I mumble. The solid planes of his face crack into a grin. 

"Nobody. The answer to your prayers, maybe." 

"Are you an angel?" His mouth puckers slightly, as if tasting something sour. 

"No." He says. "Even better." 

"But you said you were nobody." 

"That's only if you refuse my offer." 

"What offer?" 

"You want to escape, don't you? I'll be all to glad to help you get away from this awful place. Even better, I'll help you get justice for what's been done to you." 

"You will?" I whisper hoarsely. "You really will? You'll do that?" He shrugs nonchalantly. 

"Sure I will. But only if you do one thing for me." 

"What is it?" 

"Swear your allegiance to me." He licks his lips hungrily as he speaks. "All you have to do is become my follower, and I'll grant you wishes even beyond your wildest dreams." I shiver. 

"But how do I do it?" 

"You'll call my name out loud. Then I'll know it's you." 

"But I don't know your name." 

"Dionysus." His smile is like that of a mischievous cat. It makes me anxious. "Just once will be fine. No need to wear it out." 

"How do I know you're even real? How do I know this isn't just a dream? A... and even then, how do I know you're not some kind of evil spirit trying to trick me?" 

"You think an evil spirit would do this?" He kicks a mound of petals that explode lightly into the air again. "God doesn't do this, because he doesn't care. I care.  
"That's why you'll choose wisely, won't you?" 

His voice dwindles away and I wake up.


	7. Suicide

Bridget 

The flower petals, the cool fresh air, it all melts away from me and before I realize it, I'm trying to grasp for it again, only that that horrible painful feeling comes all too quickly to my body once again. I suck air hard through my teeth, fresh acid-like tears springing from my clenched eyelids. I'm back here, in the hotel room. I can taste my poop in my mouth again—something I'm ashamed to say I've somehow adjusted to. The room is dim and there's an eerie quiet on this floor. Flynn and the others must've gone out again. I curl into myself, against the window and stare down at the city below. So many people, scurrying around like ants that are completely oblivious as to what is happening in this building above them. My fingernails scratch against the glass. What a strange dream. Even stranger that I can remember every little detail, even all the things the man said. 

"Swear your allegiance to me." 

"Call out my name out loud." 

"God doesn't care. I care." 

A cold chill runs down my ribs. Was it a test? To see if I'd turn away from God? To get away from here, get Flynn arrested... it all felt too good to be true. Dionysus. The name really was familiar. The god of wine, from Greek Mythology, I think. We learned about it in world history, only that we glossed over the myths in-depth, I guess. I almost mouth his name, then stop. I... I don't think I dare. It really could be a trick, or if it's not then maybe it was all just the stupid dream of a desperate girl. There's already been virginity ripped up, blood drawn, poop eaten. I don't want to add the possibility of eternal damnation on my list.   
I crawl to the window. Nothing could hurt me anymore than this taste. I’m nothing anymore, can’t dare to even spit on this spoilt carpet. Flynn used to threaten me if I ever used this window, or even got close to it. But I don’t think anyone cares anymore. I certainly don’t. I take the time to stare at the city below. There’s surely plenty of buzz going on down there, but I’m not thinking of trying to get anyone’s attention. I’m just as small to them as they are to me, even worse because I feel so skinny. However...

Suicide is a sin. That’s the first thing I can recall the teachers telling us. I remember when a boy from choir, Jonas Sinclair, overdosed on pills because his GPA was too low to go to his dream college. We had a whole conference about it. No matter how unbearable the pain, killing yourself is never the answer. Talk to someone before you consider it. But there’s no one to talk to up here. And there’s a morbid curiosity in me, about how it would feel to fly in the wind even for a second, broken as I am. In this way, I would fall down there naked and exposed. Therefore, I could get the boys in trouble even then. And I wouldn't have to hurt this way anymore. I used to entertain ideas of not being able to hold my head high when I could finally go home. I'd probably never get married, people at school would talk behind my back. But now I know for sure: I'm never going home again. It's not a matter of how, just when.  
I’m not thinking of anything else at all, but my fingernails are scritching at the glass with a mind of their own. It feels impossible to remember the taste of fresh air, or being able to walk down the street like that. There’s a hatch in this wall, very close to me. If I undo it then I could just... slip out. And then what would happen is that I’d fall to my death. I’d go splat. I can’t do with any more pain. But at the same time, it’s just a little more, then it’ll be nothing. And who knows? I’m almost as brittle as a week-old McDonald’s fry you find wedged between car seats. Maybe... I’ll die before I hit the ground. And God would forgive me, wouldn’t he? Because no matter what, suicide is just one sin. Can’t I just pray for God to forgive me beforehand? Doesn’t that work too? I’m in so much unbelievable pain now, and I’ve always tried to be a good person, and... 

My fingers reach the first, and I pull with all my might until it comes loose. I crawl painstakingly to reach the other latch.   
It definitely wouldn't be so bad. I reach it.   
You'll fly through the air. I pull it.   
You'll be dead even before you hit the ground. It horrifyingly comes loose. 

And then... you'll go splat.

My body flops against the carpet. The little fibers itch, feels like little spikes against my bruised skin as I sob in a pathetic heap. I’m so scared. I can’t do it. I’m too scared.


	8. The Murder

Bridget

I wake up vomiting. The acrid smell burns my nose as I hurl, my sticky forehead pressed against the floor. I roll onto my side, sucking noise loudly. My stomach feels like it's been twisted and wrung out to dry. My body convulses by itself. For a short while I lay there, dry-heaving while trying to keep myself together. My head throbs. Finally I bring myself to look at the mess I've made. It's a gross yellow-brown pile of gunk that is probably the most horrible thing I've ever smelled. It's not even completely solid. I remember, the poop. No wonder that I couldn't digest it. I stare at it dumbly for several seconds before I put 2 and 2 together. Then I start to panic. Flynn! If he was mad about my going #2 on the carpet, he's bound to be furious that I threw up on it. I need to clean it up before he gets back, or else... 

There's a box of tissues sitting on the table. I crawl as fast as I can, somehow able to ignore the pain in my limbs because that's probably nothing compared to what he'll do to me if he finds out. God forbid he... he actually would make me eat it again, or something else... It'll be ok! He usually stays out for nights on end. I could just grab those tissues and I'll wipe it up as best I can. Even if there's a stain, I'll just cover it with my body or something. When it dries it'll probably get darker, so I'll chuck it up to an alcohol stain... maybe... It'll be ok. It'll be ok. 

I manage to squirm my way to the base of the table. Mission accomplished. Only, being able to actually reach up and grab the tissues feels like a monumental task. My joints scream in protest as I reach, reach, reach. This is a life-or-death situation here. I manage to latch my fingers onto the edge of the table—good! Until it wobbles and I realize I'm supporting all my weight on it. Before I can let go it's too late. No! 

The table tips down onto me and we fall. It doesn't hurt so bad because I'm stuck in the crick, but the most horrifying thing happens. I squirm out. Old cigarettes and cans of soda, alcohol bottles are now spilled all over the carpet. I sit there, everything horribly still. "No." I can only whisper. No. No. No. The tissues have toppled down next to me. Fat chance it'll do me now! I could never clean all of this by myself, even in a whole night! I'm doomed, Oh God, I'm doomed—

And then I hear the door click. My heart ricochets to a complete still. Oh God, oh God, oh God. All I can do is sit there helplessly, numbly, clutching the box of tissues as Flynn and some boys—not as many as before, I guess the rest went home—walk in, jostling each other and laughing. As soon as they lay eyes on the mess they stop in their tracks. Flynn stands at the center, his eyes burning with a deadly calm as they survey the room. 

"What," He's breathing hard as if to contain his anger, "the fuck is this." He spits through his teeth and I find myself trembling. He practically reeks of fury, but I can smell something else, alcohol. I know for sure he's drunk, a fact that fills me with dread. He's 10 times more viscous when he's drunk. 

"I-I'm sorry." I stammer. "I-it was an accident. I was go-gonna clean it up with this, I swear, I—," 

"I think you would have learned from the first time what happens when you make a mess." He roars. "But I guess stupid mutts never learn." 

"F-Flynn, p-please. I told you, I'll pick it up. Just don't be mad." 

"Oh, you will." His footsteps thunder as he crosses the room and picks up an huge empty bottle of vodka. "You're going to change your ways, slob. But first, I guess I'm just gonna have to teach you a lesson again." A sob of terror creeps up my throat. I ignore the pain of slithering back on my forearms, too desperate to escape. God, he will kill me. I know he will. He's gonna kill me. He's gonna kill me. 

"Flynn," one of the other boys, black-haired, speaks up. His voice cuts through the air as he mutters, "I think you're being a little..." Flynn whirls around with the ferocity of a tornado, brandishing his bottle like it were a gun. The boy immediately shuts up. 

"Shut the fuck up, Mike! She trashed the room like she fucking owns the place!" He roars. He descends on me.

"I didn't mean to!" I scream. I still had the tissues and in a desperate act of escape, I wave them at him. "I just wanted these, that's all! I threw up and I was gonna clean it." I point to the stain. "Y-you see? That's all I was doing. B-but I told you my legs hurt. I really couldn't reach it, so I-I, I spilled it. But I didn't mean it, I swear to God!" A fresh bout of tears that I didn't realize was still within me erupts. They drip on the floor, I sob pathetically and wring my hands together as if praying. "I swear to God, Flynn. Don't be mad, please..." 

"Oh, you just wanted the tissues." He sneers in the mocking, babyish voice. "Poor little Bridget is the victim here, right? She totally didn't want any of the beer we were saving for the big game, desperate slut that she is. Shut the fuck up!" He kicks the tissues out of my hands. I wail. I try to crawl away. I feel like an ant that has been discovered in the kitchen. The window, if only I just reach the window— I feel something crack against my skull and I fall. "DON'T YOU DARE TRY TO FUCKING WALK AWAY FROM ME!" I feel another blow. It bashes against the small of my back and I feel the vibration up my spine, like a child carelessly whacking a xylophone. 

"Flynn, no!" I beg, I sob. "Stop it! It hurts, STOP! STOOOP!" He kicks me in the ribs. 

"All—," whack.

"You had to do—," whack. 

"Was sit quietly—," whack. 

"And YOU COULDN'T EVEN DO THAT!" Whack. Raging pain in my skull and blood pours over my eyes. I can't feel my back. I can't get up. Can't move. 

"Dionysus!" I choke. "Dionysus!" He yanks me up by my hair. 

"Shut up, you bitch!" He smashes my face. So much pain it feels numb. Whack. Whack. Whack. "You fucking whore! Get up! Get up!" Can't feel my back. Can't feel my legs. 

Crack. Shatter.   
Slice. Slice. Slice. Slice. 

Darkness. 

———

He breathed heavily, his anger finally spent. His rampage was over.   
Sweat poured down his neck. The bottle was little more than pieces of glass in his hand now, dripping dark blood over the totally ruined carpet. Bridget was lying there, the skin on her face, her back, her breasts shredded to pieces. She was completely unrecognizable now, a lump of red gush smeared onto his conscience. And she wasn't moving. Her chest didn't rise even a bit.

The bottle slipped out of Flynn's hand, shattered against the floor. Speckles of red were all over his face, stained into his vision. For the first time in almost his whole life, a strange sheet of cold gripped him in the chest. 

"You killed her." Mike whispered, a morbid sort of awe in his voice. "You killed her."


	9. Bridget’s Corpse

They conversed late into the night, their voices hushed and unnerved. Some of Flynn's friends paced around, fidgeted their hands around their packs of cigarettes with trembling hands. Flynn could understand. They were only thugs, brawlers, henchmen. As far as he understood, none of them had ever killed anyone before. He had never killed anyone before. 

It still pissed him off, though. He slammed a fist on the table. They jolted like a ripple in water. "Goddamnit!" He yelled finally. "What the fuck were ya'll expecting? You thought we were just gonna have a happy-fuck-time and then we were just gonna let her go?" Mike sighed, running fingers trough his hair. The body was still in the other room. They wrapped her in the carpet, as well as the rest of the trash dumped on it, tight as a burrito. This way they could dispose of nearly all the evidence in one go. Also, Flynn couldn't stand to look at her anymore. Her eyes had popped like jelly against the glass. Her nose barely hung onto the rest of her face. Chunks of her hair fell out. He had done that. But it didn't feel much like anything. He imagined that the first time a gun would be put in his hands, he'd imagine how glorious it might feel. He wasn't a bad shot, as long as he kept himself level-headed. The sound of a rival's head exploding on impact was as music to him. Then everyone would know the depths of what he was capable of. But he couldn't ignore the icy blue feeling that quilted him, every time he bothered to glance in the other room. That feeling would eventually be known to him at dread.  
Stupid retarded, slutty, stuck-up, no-it-all Bridget. If only she'd done what she was told, none of this would be happening right now. 

"I dunno, Flynn." He said finally. "I mean, you said you were gonna let her go at some point. It's not that we really cared, just that we forgot after a while. But what are we gonna do about the body? If we get your brother involved, he's gonna have all our skins." 

"You don't think I fucking know that?!" He snarled. He slapped his hand on the table again, then bolted up. He paced around, clutching his temples. They were supposed to be lying low for a while, after the little... indiscretion with King Alfie. But that was Charles' own fucking fault, not his. Didn't matter to Charles, though. God fucking damnit, what should he do...

Mike held out a cigarette, already lit. Flynn sighed, took it with trembling hands. He sucked, blew, sucked, blew. The more the better. His muscles relaxed themselves, he stopped shaking. He didn't mean to kill her. Not really. She got what she deserved coming, and God, she pissed him off but he still liked her anyways. A skank of all things.  
His shoulders slumped. The answer was simple: dump the body. He turned to face his friends. "It won't be hard." He declared. "Dump the body, scrub the room down, dirty it up again and it's like nothing ever happened. The only hiccup is we need a place that no one will ever think to look." 

He looked around at all their hesitant faces. After a minute, Tyler raised his hand demurely. "Well," he started. Flynn raised his eyebrows. 

"Speak up." Tyler nodded. 

"I think we should throw it in the river. It's pretty deep, I don' think anyone lreally scuba-dives there or nothin..." He paused as he went on. "We'll need a big bag, and like, a few bricks to weigh it down. No one would know." Flynn frowned as he thought about it. He didn't know if he could hire a boat. That would seems suspicious. But if they followed it out into some remote part, then they could bring along a small boat. They'd need to swim out to where it was deep enough and then dump it. Sounded like tough work, but it was a body they were hiding. He nodded. 

"Sounds foolproof enough to me." He took one more glance around. "First we need to rent a small boat. Small but fast. Tyler, Simone, hook us up with all the stuff. We'll head out first thing tomorrow night. We've gotta be quick."  
The rest of them stood there twiddling their dicks until Flynn snapped at them all to go home, something the damn freeloaders almost never did. Only tonight, Flynn wasn't in the mood and he wanted to be alone. Some of them stayed behind for a lingering bit, including Mike, but eventually even they got the message and they slunk out of the room. 

Flynn found a single fresh can of beer, spared from all the carnage of the day. In a single swift motion, he popped it open and slurped. He ambled around the hotel room. After a while he walked towards the window. It was a pitch oily dark. Not as many people were out now. 3 am already. 5 months already. After tomorrow night, she would be out of his life forever. Out of sight, out of mind. As far as Flynn was concerned, Bridget Henshel no longer existed. 

When he dared walk into the room again, he almost believed it. 

The first thing that caught his eye was the carpet, which had somehow deflated immensely. An odd sense of terror suddenly gripped him. Surely she was dead. No one could survive after all that bleeding. Even then, she said so herself: she couldn't move. He edged closer, almost afraid to nudge the damn thing with his toe in case it actually moved. Only it felt... hollow. Panic seized him. Without thinking, he ripped the carpet out of it's folds, spilling out everything: the cigarettes, the ash, all the glass and the blood. 

Except Bridget. 

The body was gone.


	10. Rehabilitation Process

Bridget

I feel like I've been asleep for an insane amount of time. The longer I keep my eyes open, I can recall little snippets of dreams, the painful and the morbid parts. Flashing lights. Flynn cutting me with a glass. Cold air. White, flickering shadows brushing around me. Bones being painfully wrenched back into place. A man chanting gibberish, yelling. Nails digging into my thighs. Alcohol burning into my throat. Flesh re-knitting itself back together much faster than it's ever. Floating in air. Intense eyes. Burning fingers touching my head. All those visions stuffed into my head so densely it hurt as they swirled. It was like trying to remember the plot of a movie you watched when you were 3 and couldn't remember the name of. 

I smelled things before I saw. Flowers, cigarette smoke, fresh sheets... what? I didn't get it. In heaven there was supposed to be fluffy clouds, glorious songs of praise, endless meadows. There wasn't supposed to be cigarettes, or laundry detergent. 

My eyelids felt crusted shut. Even with them closed, I could see blares of harsh light from the outside. I wondered what time it was—where I was. I felt the blankets around me. They were soft—silky, even—warm. And like I said, they smelled nice. Flynn would never... I tried opening my eyes a little at a time. It burned, pure white light blinded me until little by little, I inched them open. My eyes watered, but eventually I could see figures forming in the brightness. I was in a new room, a clean one. The bed was covered in white and cream-green sheets. The pillows were pleasantly cool. They felt like tempurpedic, only softer. The floor was white marble, so smooth that it was like a mirror. A finely-patterned green carpet was spread under the length of the bed to a fancy desk and chair by a window, the frame a dark wood. It was left open. Beyond that was a big terrace. There were gossamer curtains draped all around the room. They swayed lightly from the breeze. There was another room to the side of the bed, and I heard people talking. At first my hearing felt fuzzy for some reason, but the harder I tried to listen, the less TV static I heard. It was a man, and... a woman. My heart leaped. I don't think I had seen another woman for, like, 5 months, I think. They sounded relatively pleasant, but also arbitrative.

"She looks great now, doesn't she? Not too shabby, if I say so myself." The man said that. He sounded young. 

"Of course she does, Lord Asclepius. But, the scars will go away, won't they? I'm not sure how Lord Dionysus will feel..." 

"I already told you, I've done the best I can. A human body can only eat so much nectar in the first place or they'll combust. I had to use, like, 12 doses, so she'll be feverish for a little while." There was a shift. "The bones are healed for the most part, her eyes are recovered. Most of the skin has reattached itself, but you can't expect all the blemishes to go away in one night. I may be a god, but I'm not exactly a miracle worker." 

"I do understand, but still... I'm worried." 

"You'll have to talk to Miss Pasithea on that one. But I've done all I can here, so I'll head out... oh, you'll remember our arrangement, won't you?" The woman heaved a sigh. 

"Yes, my Lord. You have my Lord's word that Coronis will meet you at the Orchids at Palm Court tomorrow night at 7 sharp." 

"Perfect. Oh, give these to her from me. Tell her I'm looking forward to it." 

"Of course, I'll make sure to pass them on right away. Have a safe trip." I heard shuffling around, the door slam. Then there were footsteps padding towards where I was. I lay there completely still as she came into the room. She was a pretty girl, around my age maybe, only older. She had a regal nose, pale skin spotted by little freckles. Her hair was medium, slightly wavy and light red. It was pulled into a ponytail. She was wearing rolled-up slacks, a loose pastel blue blouse bunched up by a cord. She was holding a bouquet of crocuses, shaking her head lightly even though she had a telling smile on her face. She disappeared into another room in front of me—the bathroom, I realized. I could hear the faucet running—and emerged with a simple vase. She put it on the desk and carefully slipped the crocuses into it. When she stood up straight, she turned around and we met eyes. I flinched automatically, but she beamed like she was genuinely pleased to see me. "You're awake already?" I nodded quickly. "Darn, that was pretty quick." She chuckled, stepping closer. "How're you feeling?" I thought about it for a second. My tongue prodded around my mouth, feeling sour and horribly dry, like I was chewing tumbleweed. I swallowed, feeling a familiar emptiness in my middle. Coincidentally, my belly made a horribly loud rrrrrr sound. The girl snorted and I felt myself go warm. 

"Hungry." I said hoarsely. 

"No kidding."

Now I'm in the other room. I'm sitting upright on a plush green couch, my fingers feeling hypnotically sore as they scratch at the sleek wood. A flatscreen TV is in front of me, flashing images of slap comedy. I can't really pay attention. Secretly I'm watching the girl in the kitchen. She's cooking something on the stove, smells like bacon and cheese. My mouth waters. I've never liked pork, but I can't remember the last time I had a real breakfast, or anything to eat at all, in fact. When I was with Flynn, they always ordered takeout or brought something home. It was always scraps, like pizza bones and the leftover vegetables in the fried rice no one else wanted to eat. 

Flynn. 

I feel so out of place here, it's maddening. I feel bad. If anyone is cooking, it should be me, I feel like. My joints—something I discovered with shock—don't hurt very much anymore. Even so, that girl supported me to the couch in case I fell. The windows are all open. It's a nice day outside. There's not a cloud in the sky and the breeze is nice and cool. I can hear the sounds of the city: traffic and people walking on the streets underneath us. I wonder what floor we're on.   
There's a rift in between my memories that I try to knit back into place, from the time when Flynn beat me within an inch of my life to when I found myself here, in a fancy hotel—or apartment or whatever—being treated like a queen. Flynn didn't kill me, but a part of me feels almost absolutely sure he did. Something could never be so painful and have you live through it. I think about the feeling of the bottle smashing my skull—I shiver—and all the things that led up to the event. He got mad because I spilled all the stuff. I may have broke the table. I may have caused a ruckus for the people below us. He was beating me with all he had. Before I passed out I... I said the name from my dream. Dionysus. I said it, like, 3 times. The TV buzzes in my ears. Was was that? 

"Food's ready." I hear the girl call very suddenly. I jump, try to scramble out of my seat but she's already coming to me, with a tray in her hands. She sets it on the coffee table and pushes the whole thing closer so I can reach it with not much effort. I try giving her a smile. 

"Thank you." I say quieter than I mean to. She smiles anyway. I stare too long at the food, but I can't help it, I really can't. It's real food. Bacon, cheesy ketchup eggs, and toast. A glass of orange juice—there's even some strawberry jam on the side. And there's steam wafting up. I feel like crying. She's staring at me the whole time. 

"Well, it's not instagram worthy, but it is for eating, so help yourself. I'll get mad if you don't eat it all." She points a mock-threatening finger at me, but I don't dare nor care to see if she's serious. I pounce on the whole thing without thinking. I shovel spoonfuls of egg into my mouth, slap bacon on the toast and hastily slather jam on the whole thing. I don't care how it looks, I just know I need it in my body now. I'm halfway through my toast before I remember to breathe, then I grab the orange juice and chug the whole thing. I feel some of it slosh down my chin, but I don't care. Until I see the look on the girl's face. She stares in awe, holding her toast as if she were about to bite it if she weren't so distracted by me, her mouth slightly open. My face burns as I slowly put down the cup and search for a napkin. "Holy shit." She mutters. 

"I-I'm sorry, I'm totally..." her face breaks into a wide grin.

"Are you kidding? Don't apologize! I didn't realize my cooking was that good. I should be on Iron Chef America!" She taps her chin thoughtfully. "Maybe I really should pursue a career in cuisine..." I laugh, half nervously and half embarrassed. I didn't notice she put a napkin under the spoon, just for me. 

"No, it's just," I wipe my face. "It's good. It's really good." She shrugs. 

"That's a relief. To be honest, my idea of good food is kid's cuisine in the oven instead of the microwave. Was thinking, maybe I should order room service but then it's like, that shit is so ridiculously expensive. It's like, we're in Cincinnati, not Rome." I've never had kid's cuisine, but it's funny anyways. We share a small laugh and then it sinks back into quiet, the only sound being Mrs. Goldberg being upset because her sweaters didn't sell because they were too ugly or something. 

"The Goldbergs." The girl says to no one. "I remember I used to watch this, like, every night." I chew on my toast crust, slowly now and thoughtful. I wait a few minutes in those minutes of painful silence before I finally work up the courage to ask. 

"Uh," I squeak. She glances at me and I flame, feeling the worst. I should have asked earlier, so it wouldn't be weird. "Where... where am I?" 

"Oh shit, I totally forgot! You don't know who I am, right?" I shake my head. She slaps a hand against hers. "Man, that's a little embarrassing. Well, I'm Mary. I'm a servant of Dionysus. And you're..." 

"Bridget. I mean, my full name is Bridget Henshel."

"Like the chocolate bar?" I shake my head again, trying not to laugh. 

"No, not Hershey. Henshel. I..." There's a horrible pause. I don't know how I can word it, the things I've been doing for the past 100 days. How can you say, I was kidnapped but I teleported here magically. "I'm in trouble." I force myself to blurt out. "There's this guy who's out to get me. He's a gang leader and, he's crazy! He kidnapped me... he—," the words stick like peanut butter in my throat. My eyes moisten, I can't bear to think about him. I'm away from him for now, but... I'm looking all around the room, feeling interested in the many glittering facets of the crystal chandelier above our heads. I'm meeting Mary's eyes makes me feel like I've been burned with a cigarette again, but she's listening so patiently. She just sits there, and when my eyes are watering so much they start to overflow, she hands me a tissue. I take it gratefully, blow my nose. "You don't know what he's capable of." I continue. "He's got friends everywhere. They did—bad things to me. They... they..." she puts a hand on my shoulder. I flinch. I sniffle, press the tissue to my nose. The inside of my clothes—they are pink-striped pajamas—is uncomfortably hot. I try wiping the rest of my face. It comes away damp. 

"It's ok. Whatever happened then, that part of your life is over." She says, determined. There's a glint in her eye. "I was the same, y'know. But you don't need to be scared anymore. You don't have to worry about anything anymore. Dionysus won't ever let him hurt you again, it's a sure fact." She sounds so adamant, it's almost enough to make me believe her. I could use some positive reassurance. I sniff.

"Thank you."


	11. Welcome to Our Cult

Bridget 

Come to think of it, I haven't watched TV for a while. There've been a few times when I caught a glimpse of Flynn and his friends watching a football game, or when he would make me watch a gruesome scene from Saw, or Live Animals. But I almost forgot about all the TV shows I used to watch. It never occurred to me that Steven Universe might come out with a new season while I was away. And yet, there's a new character called Lapis Lazuli who can manipulate water. That's cool. We just finished breakfast, but Mary's procured a bag of salty vinegar chips and now she's munching loudly on them as we watch Cartoon Network. It takes me almost the whole episode before I can work up my next question. "Mary?" 

"Hm?" 

"You said... earlier, you said you were a servant of... Dionysus, right?" 

"Yeah, sure am." 

"Well, you see... that's the person that showed up in my dream. And, he said to say his name if I wanted to escape." I scoot closer. "It-it was him that rescued me, wasn't it? That's why I'm here, now?" She pauses to frown at me. A jolt of fear shoots down my spine. Of course, it did sound stupid after all. 

"Well, yeah. I thought you already understood that." Oh, never mind. I rub the back of my neck and my hand comes away clammy. I wish she would turn on the air conditioner or something, but I'm too scared to ask. 

"Ok, but... how is that possible? I thought he was some kind of angel, but... that's not it, is it?" 

"No, he's a god." She says in an inappropriately nonchalant way. "A Greek god, like in the myths. The god of wine and the like, y'know?" 

"But there's—I thought there was only one god." She sighs heavily. I flush. 

"Ah, geez." I know what she's gonna say: oh, you're one of those people. "Look, I guess you could say that god does exist. But he's not the only one. Wait, I'm not really good at explaining things. Gimme a minute." She sets her chips down on the floor and scratches her head, eyebrow tensed for a second as if thinking hard. Then she turns to me. "Ok, so it's like this. Think of all the gods in existence. Like, the Greeks and the Egyptians and the Vikings, yada, yada. It's like, do you think all those stories just what, magically popped up? I guess gods can show up just about anywhere, but the important thing is that they aren't just myths. They stay alive as long as there are people who tell those stories, who believe them. You get that?" I force myself to nod. "Ok, and then, you have the worshippers. Dionysus is a god, and not just of wine. He represents things like madness, cults... sexual stuff. And his worshippers are called maenads. They're essentially an elite group of super badass women who follow him around, do his bidding, show up at his parties when no one else does, etc. They can basically come from anywhere. They can be nymphs—those are, like, nature spirits—and human girls, like you and me." She pats her chest. "I'm a maenad, and so are you." 

"But that can't be." I try to protest. I feel faint, like someone just pulled the couch from underneath me. I wonder if it's just me, or the room's getting hotter. It certainly does look hot outside. "I know that he saved me, and I'm thankful for it—really I am—but I'm a Catholic. I... I believe in Jesus. I can't just suddenly change my faith, just like that. Can I?" 

"That was his condition. You called his name, right?" 

"Well, yes, but—," 

"Then you already made your choice. Since you did that, you're tied to him for just about, like, forever. There's not much you can do about it." She shrugs. It hits me like that, as I think about it more and more. Mom and Dad. Bernard. Daisy and Kylie and Genoise. Did that mean... I'd never see them again? Even so, what would they think of me, when they saw that I didn't couldn't go to church anymore? Without school, how was I going to go get my driver's license, or go to college? I know that I have to make my bed. That man—god—whatever he is, he saved my life somehow. If I didn't uphold my end of the deal, what would happen? If he could transport me out of that place, he could definitely make me go back. The idea makes my skin scrawl. If I had to go through any of that again, I'm sure I would die. But at the same time, all of this... magic stuff. I can't wrap my head around it. It makes my head swirl nauseously. 

"Bu... but my family... my school..." I manage. She gives me a sympathetic look. 

"Yeah, I get that. Listen, I know it's hard, but this is your new life now. And in my opinion, you made the right choice. All that... unconditional love stuff? Doesn't make sense to me. It's like, Jesus loves me but he doesn't do anything when you get picked up by gangsters? Doesn't sound like love to me." Her eyes widen, probably at how ill I must look. "Oops, sorry, I shouldn't say things like that." Awkward silence envelops us. "Well... just look on the bright side: you get to live forever now." 

"Wha... live... forever?" Sweat is trickling down my back. "What's that mean?" The nauseous feeling won't go away either, only getting stronger. Suddenly I regret horking down my breakfast so quickly. She shrugs. 

"With the oath comes benefits. Immortality, I mean. That means to live forever, never die... So basically, we get to do whatever we want. We can party and watch The Goldbergs for literally forever. You can do a lot worse than that, right?" 

"Immortality." I mutter. "Oh my..." Suddenly, before I can emit a warning or even a whimper, I vomit. Mary jumps up with a shout of alarm at the sight of tossed-up eggs spewn all over the coffee table. The world tips and swirls. I lurch sideways, groaning. I dumbly wonder why the floor's plummeting towards me. Then I fall flat on my face and faint. 

———

Mary panicked aloud as she rushed to Bridget's side. "Oh my god. Oh my god." She muttered. At first she fidgeted, unsure of where to put her hands. Finally, she worked up the courage to turn her onto her side. She moaned softly. 

"S' hot." She slurred. Mary pressed her palm tentatively against her forehead, then quickly withdrew. God, she was hot. No, she was burning. Her skin was as red as if she'd been sunburned. What did Asclepius say again? She might have a fever? Hurriedly, she pulled out her cellphone. She had to control her trembling fingers as she searched her recent contacts. The phone ring-backed for an agonizing amount of time—Mary's gaze darting in between the dial and the unconscious girl next to her—until finally someone picked up. 

"Hello?" 

"Asclepius!" She snapped louder than she meant to. "You didn't say the fever would come this fast!" There was a pause. Then she heard someone say, 

"Dad, one of your patients is calling you." Dad? 

"Um, sorry?" Mary wheezed. "It's just, something really bad has happened—," 

"Iaso, can you take over?" Someone in the background said in a hurried voice. "I have to get ready for my date." 

"Date? What date?" Mary demanded. "Coronis is meeting you tomorrow. Don't tell me—," 

"It's a business date, I mean!" The voice called. "Iaso, please." Then there was a sigh. 

"Ok, alright." The voice came back. "What's the problem?" 

"O-Ok, so," Mary found herself struggling to speak. "My friend was getting treated by your dad, right? So he gave her just a trendy bit of nectar, and he said that she'll get a fever cuz of it. But she only got up just now and we had breakfast a few minutes ago, and she just threw up everywhere and now she's passed out. Also, she's sweating a lot. Like, I mean she's practically melting." There was another pause. 

"So basically what I got from all that is, she's got a bad fever." Mary nodded vigorously, even though this goddess clearly couldn't see. 

"Uh-huh."

"Ok, that's easy. What you have to do first is get her temperature down. Do you have any cold compressors?" 

"Er, no." 

"Alright, then fill the bathtub with cold water and put her in gently." 

"Ok, ok," Mary anchored the phone in between her ear and shoulder as she ran to the bathroom. She cranked the water to full blast, maximum cold. She felt it with her fingers until it felt ice cold. "Cold bath. Easy." She ran back to the living room and knelt over. Gently as Iaso said, she tried to pull Bridget over her shoulder. It was much easier than she initially thought; she felt lighter than a sack of potatoes. Slowly, she pulled her along with her feet dragging. She set her down in a sitting position on the cool tiled floor, only for her head to loll and smack against the toilet seat. Shit! Bridget moaned again. Mary propped her again, this time on her knees. She patted around her burning head. Thank gods, there wasn't any real damage done. Just a little bump... she had her lean against her as she peeled off her drenched pajamas... no underwear. Huh. That was kind of hot. How old was this girl again? Mary glanced over. Holy crap, the tub was nearly overflowing. She jumped over Bridget's body to shut the faucet off, which resulted in her slipping and falling, the rim of the tub clipping her chin. "Fuck!" 

"Is everything all right over there?" Iaso said suddenly over the phone. Mary swore again under her breath. 

"Nothing, nothing! Everything's peachy. A-ok." 

"Alright..." the voice said, obviously doubtful. "This isn't an enormously important problem, you know. Just stay calm and get her in the tub already." 

"Ok, ok... gimme a minute." She put the phone down on the floor and crawled over. It was a struggle to hold Bridget, her body limp and slippery with sweat. It felt like touching a burning pan sheathed in skin. But eventually, she managed to slip her arm over her shoulder and she supported her into the tub. Bridget shuddered as her calf was submerged, but as soon as she was completely sunk in—more like she fell in—she jolted hard. Big gobs of water sloshed over the sides. Mary rushed to save her phone, which was almost carried out of the bathroom on a wave. "Crap, crap, crap!" Bridget's head slid under and she thrashed wildly in the water, splashing everywhere. She sputtered and choked. Mary ran to hold her upright. She was dazed, her teeth clattering nonstop. 

"Cold." She sobbed. "Too cold!" Mary supported her by her arms. She was shaking so hard Mary was desperate to pull her right back out. How long was someone supposed to stay in cold water? She felt Bridget's head. Still so hot. 

"It'll feel warm in a minute." Mary insisted. "Like the swimming pool." She cupped some water and splashed it on her face. Bridget lay there wracked in shivers for some few seconds, then tried to make one last attempt to shake free. Mary stopped her. "Bridget, you're ill. If we don't get your temperature down, you'll die for sure. You understand?" For a few seconds she was still, then she nodded. Some water sloshed against her chin. "Just lay there for a bit." For an incorporeal amount of time, she sat there with her, until she was sure she wouldn't drown. Then she stood up, her knees cramped and her shirt completely soaked. Sighing deeply, she went to pick up her phone. Gods, it better have not been broken... she wiped it hastily on the back of her pants and turned it on. The screen froze for a few seconds, then righted itself. Mary wiped her brow in relief. Well, she'd need to call housekeeping, to clean up the vomit. Then she'd need to get in touch with Iaso again, apologize and say thank you, and also... 

She went into her contacts, slammed her finger on the first name, and waited. After the first 2 buzzes, he picked up. "Wassup." 

"Hi, Dionysus." She glanced at Bridget, still in the tub. "What are you doing now?" 

"Just visited my brother. He was wholly convinced that fermenting kool-aid would turn it into alcohol. Guess we gave Asclepios a pretty busy day, eh?" She laughed nervously. 

"What a coincidence... Are you coming over soon?" 

"Yeah, why?" 

"Cuz Asclepios slipped up over here, too. Sort of. I think you should check up on her." He didn't answer right away, but finally after a few seconds of silence, he said, 

"Ok, coming now." 

"Thanks."


	12. Rubbing Down a Body

Bridget

During what feels like 3 days, I slip in and out of consciousness. I remember making a total fool of myself, throwing up all over the hotel room. Mary taking me to the bathroom, undressing me even though I really wish she didn't. She poured cold water on me for some dumb reason. God, it was so cold. Even though I'm rolling around in a puddle of my own sweat, I feel chilled to the bone. I don't wear any clothes, and Mary keeps the window open, but it's so awful. A hill of blankets swaddles me, like she asked housekeeping for every spare in stock. I feel like a caterpillar, trapped but wishing desperately that I didn't ever have to come back out. My head throbs, my stomach can barely keep itself together. There's little pieces here and there that I remember during sleeping, Mary patting my face with a damp cloth, forcing food down my throat... what is it, some kind of soup? Also several horrible ones, that are so easy to remember because it was of me vomiting into a bucket, or her helping me into the bathroom so I could diarrhea my brains out. 

Also, even though it's just Mary who takes care of me, there is definitely someone else in the hotel room. At first, I thought the doctor god or whoever had come back, but I think I was wrong. His voice was light, chipper, even with a slight British-like accent. This man's voice is also young, but deeper. Smooth sounding but not quite right in a way, like the black keys on a piano. One thing I remember him saying is, "you want to order a pizza or something? Is there such a thing as pizza soup?" It was coming from the other room, only that I'm too sick to care. 

I wake up again and it's nighttime. It's dark, save for the full white moonlight coming from the open balcony door. The curtains sway. My body is wracked with shivers. God, can't somebody just close it? What if somebody tries to come in? With me naked? It's a stupid thought, but I'm sicker than I've ever been, so that sort of gives me a right to be salty. When I shift to one side, the sheets beneath me squish wetly. I groan. Gross. I never knew it was possible to sweat that much. I think I'd give anything for housekeeping to come in now and change the mattress. I toss and turn, scooting to the other side of the bed, which isn't as bad. It creaks softly as I flop down, feeling bearable if not relieved. I lay there for a bit, listening to the traffic outside, the sound of the TV blaring in the other room. I curl tightly into a ball. How different does this feel from Flynn's place? I shouldn't even think that, I know. It's not similar at all, really. It's a lot more comfy here. There's someone who really takes care of me, even if I'm a stranger. Words can't describe how grateful I am for it, really I am, but a familiar iciness washes over me in this dark room. It's... scary. But familiar. I wonder if this is a separate room hotel, but if it's not, I start to wish with all my heart that Mary would just stop being considerate, sleep in here with me so that I just have a bit of comfort. Comfort of... what? I don't know. 

I sit up. I can't stand this anymore. I'm not a prisoner, I don't think. Even if I am sick, I can't bear to sleep anymore. My insides feel crushed, like a popcorn kettle just waiting to explode. My head swims at the bit of movement, but I just want to relish the feeling of being able to move my arms again, or my legs. I kick off all the blankets, stare down at myself. It occurs to me, among all the other things I've slowly come to notice, I haven't looked in a mirror. They said that I had healed, and I just believed them, but now I'm seeing it for myself and it's strange. I wiggle my toes. No bruises. No real aches, just a stiffness. There's just a bit of hair, from me not shaving for... how long? The same goes for my arms. I flex my fingers. I'm mesmerized by how long and white they look. Through them, I suddenly notice a figure on the balcony. 

They're leaned over the railing, smoking something, perfectly still. Their back is turned to me. I sit there, frozen, too scared to move even a muscle. It's like that for another minute or so, until they flick away their cigarette. I snap into it, dive under the covers. I bury my face into the damp pillow and try my best to quell my violent shaking. God, please, don't let him have heard me... 

Maybe it's like Mary says, that I've supposedly switched allegiances and now Jesus is miffed, because I hear footsteps creak lightly against the wood, padding onto the carpet. They get closer, louder, until they've stopped right next to me. My heart beats at 100 miles an hour, intensifies to the max when the person says, "I know you're awake."

Automatically I turn to look at him, a tall mass of darkness in the moonlight. Lithe body, curly black hair, pale skin that glows a healthy gold, dark eyes that burn like hot coals into me. I feel white as a sheet. "I'll go back to sleep." I say in a small voice. He cocks his head to the side, an amused smile on his face. 

"I thought something was bothering you." 

"S'nothing." I try saying. Then I cough. "I mean, it's ok. it's nothing, uh... sir?" He snorts and I flush. He's supposed to be my new religion. How am I supposed to address him? My Lord? Your Majesty? The idea feels so strange. It's hard to deny there's something superhuman about him, though. Maybe it's in the way he upholds himself, or the way he looks at others. I don't know a lot about Greek Mythology in the first place, but I do remember one time in middle school when we took a field trip to the art museum. There were more statues than anything, and that's kind of how he reminds me of. His face is like it's carved out of marble. Too perfect to be human, I guess. That's why it's so surreal to see him move, or to smile. He flops onto the side of the bed, rolling his eyes. 

"I'm not going to get mad at you, you know. Just tell me what's wrong." I gulp. 

"The sweat... feels gross." I mumble hesitantly. It feels so petty now. It's like, it was bothering me for sure, but isn't it so much better than sleeping on the floor? What else could he do for me? Even though he said he wouldn't be mad, I'm stunned when he stands up and motions his head to the bathroom. 

"Wanna wash it off?" There's a moment of silence, that tingles with something that feels like anticipation. Finally I understand. 

"With—with you?" I say, squeakily. He shrugs. 

"Why not? You can't reach your back by yourself. If I do it then it'll be quicker." 

"I—I don't wanna—trouble you." 

"I don't mind." He goes into the bathroom before I can say anymore. He flips on the light and steps aside gesturing. "Come on now, don't be shy." I don't want to annoy him, but I feel rooted to my spot. I wonder if he saw me naked before this point. I mean, I know I was naked in my dream, but that was different. I couldn't even see myself. None of those ideas help me become less embarrassed of myself. I've never stripped myself down in front of a guy before. Sort of.   
Finally my fingers feel around the thin damp sheet I'm swathed in. I wrap it around myself and scurry into the bathroom with him. He shuts the door quietly, then faces me. There's no mistaking the laughter in his eyes. My face feels hot. I guess he's right, of course, to feel that way. I must look really stupid, but at least he's good-natured and he's not annoyed. I stand off in the corner, out of the way while he gets a washcloth, wets it down in the sink, puts down the toilet seat, and sits spread-legged with the cloth wrapped in one hand. "Let's see it, then." 

He's determined, I guess. And... who am I to stop him? I lower the sheet, just so that it reaches only the very edge of my back, and stare ahead. I look down past my nose, hoping my ratty hair is enough to cover up my boobs. I'm thinking the real reason he wants to help me like this is really because this is just a ploy to get in my pants, if I had any. But that just makes it all the easier. The idea fills me with dread. The second he presses the wet cloth against my back, it's ice cold. I flinch and try my best not to squirm. I try thinking about the way Mary dunked me into a vat of ice. Compared to that, this is absolutely nothing. He slides the cloth across the nape of my neck. Then, out of nowhere, he says, "Wish I had a strigil." The sound of his voice is right in my ear, making me jump slightly. 

"A-a what?" 

"A strigil... a sweat scraper." He explains. "Where I come from, people used them all the time. They were pretty handy. You use it sort of like a razor. Gets all the sweat off in one go." 

"Really? I've never heard of it before..." 

"That's because no one makes them these days. They're only used for horses now. Not as good quality. Good for exfoliating, I hear, though." 

"Oh." Some silence stretches between us. The bath tiles begin to warm under my feet. The air conditioning blares to life again. Goosebumps on my skin start to go down, and he keeps wiping me. The pressure he exerts is very firm, but not in a bad way. Kind of slow. He has very smooth hands. They're long and white and flexible, another thing like a statue's. They sort of remind me of Bernard's hands. An image of him playing the piano in the living room causes a lump to rise in my throat. 

"Um," I say suddenly. "I needed to say thank you for saving me. You really got me out of a horrible place. I'm sure if you didn't step in, then I'd be dead by now. I... I can't tell you how grateful I am." He says nothing, so I continue. "A-and, I know that we made a deal, and you probably expect a lot of things from me now. But the truth is that I don't know anything about Greek Gods or anything. I don't know anything... about you, really. I know that's bad, since you're supposed to be my new religion. But I promise I'll make the most with what I have now. So... uh, please be patient with me. I-is that ok?" Somehow I find myself straining to look behind me. Nervously. We meet eyes and his face as cool and unreadable as cream. A wave of panic grips me. Did I make him mad? 

Then he laughs. He flicks my cheek lightly and I yelp a little. "Go to sleep, peachy girl." I hold my cheek while he stands up and tosses the cloth to one side. All I can say is, 

"Ok." He looks back at me and I scramble to pull the sheet over me again. I flip off the light and shuffle back into the bedroom, glancing at him quickly one more time before climbing back into bed. I'm pleasantly surprised. Somehow, the mattress isn't wet anymore. I pull only some sheets over me, since it doesn't feel that cold anymore, either. I yawn to myself. Even standing up for such a short time sucked a lot of energy out of me, it feels like. The thought of running track or doing volleyball is enough to make me exhausted.   
I close my eyes for a minute, then crack one open. He's still here, sitting in the corner of the room where the desk is. He's on his phone, tapping the screen nonchalantly, as if he were meant to be there. Surprisingly, the idea of him in the same room as me while I sleep doesn't sound that bad. The grip of fear that I had before has dissolved, like it never existed. The moon shines brightly through the windows, spreading a soft pale light through the room. A comforting sensation washes through me as I curl up inside the blankets and close my eyes.


	13. Breakfast with Dionysus

Bridget 

The sun shines prettily through the curtains. The delicate little threads on them glitter. I lay for a little bit, taking in all the nice things around me. I must have woken up early; it's sunrise and the sky is a lovely orange-pink color. It paints the whole room in a golden light. There's a sound of early traffic going on outside, a sound that I find oddly comforting. A crisp breeze tickles me on the nose. It carries a strong smell of coffee, sugar and dough frying. I breathe deeply, yawning loudly. My stomach rumbles. Somehow, I feel great. My headache has gone away, and my stomach doesn't hurt anymore. Dionysus is gone, though. It's just me in here, which gives me the leisure of being able to get up and walk around the room without wearing a sheet. So that's what I do. Standing up feels like something of an effort, though. I'm still a little woozy. Just a little, though. 

After a few cautionary steps, I head straight to the bathroom. I smell awful, like a sack of moldy wet onions. And I'm greasy. How long has it been since I last took a shower by myself? How could Dionysus stand it? The memory of him rubbing down my back yesterday makes heat spread over my neck. If I smelled anywhere near this, then I think I should just jump off the terrace now and get it over with. But first, a shower. I lock the door and turn on the air-conditioner, hoping it's not too loud. I turn on the shower faucet full blast, medium heat. I step in and it feels amazing. The smell of the hotel shampoo is amazing, the soap bar against my skin, everything is amazing.   
By the time I get out, the bathroom is a murk of mist. My scalp has been scrubbed raw, and there's only half a bar of soap left. I want to brush my teeth, too, and my hair. I wipe some mist off the mirror with my hands, and I stare at myself. 

It feels so funny to look in a mirror again. It's scary. I don't look at all like myself, I feel like. I've shed like 100 pounds. Bones jut out unnaturally in certain places, like my hips and my collarbone and my elbows. My face looks hollow and so pale it's green. There are dark bags under my eyes, which seem 10 times bigger now. And there's scars all over my face. Not big noticeable ones, but small thin, pale pink lines across my face like fragments of broken glass. The more I look at myself the more scary it is. It's in the eyes, like it's another person looking back at me. I can't imagine ever looking like that. And yet it's me standing in the mirror. What was that book we read in 9th grade... Night by Elie Weasel. At the end of the book he looked in the mirror too. He was horrified by what he saw, said something like, "The look in his eyes never left me." That's the one part I remember, even though I don't think I ever understood. But I do now. It's the look of a starving person.   
I tear my gaze away and rush out of the bathroom, tears stinging my eyes. I try to wipe them away. I'm so ugly. 

I tiptoe around the room. I wonder if there's any clothes lying around. I don't want to bother Mary, because she's probably still sleeping. There must be something I can wear, the pajamas from earlier. Firstly, I go to shut the balcony door. Lord, there's probably loads of bugs in the hotel room now. And nobody needs to see ugly me mooning them. But there's nothing around the desk, or around the bed. I search through the innumerable amount of blankets—God, how did I manage to sleep under all this?—but there's nothing. I flop onto the bed, feeling just a little frustrated. I just wish someone could have left something in case I wanted to get up myself. I'm not... totally helpless anymore, even though I really am grateful for all the concern... I should be nicer to them. Don't Greek people wear sheets anyway? 

I get up and go to the door. First I try listening. Of course they left the TV on, but I don't hear any real movement. I open just a peep and look around. No one that I can see. So cautiously, I step out. I tiptoe to the couch. Mary's curled up on her side in a blanket, dead asleep. She's snoring kind of loudly, mouth hanging slightly open, her hair catching some sunlight and shining prettily. The sight makes me smile. I should do something for her, to thank her for taking care of me, even if she did throw me in an ice tub. I look around the room and I spot them, the pajamas I was wearing. And thank God, they're clean, like they've just been washed. I put aside the towel and start buttoning up the shirt, hoping she wouldn't wake up. Then I'm halfway pulling up my pants as Dionysus walks through the front door. 

We lock eyes for several mortifying seconds, until he says, nonchalantly, "Good morning." I yelp with horror and jerk my pants up. I was bent over... 

"I thought you went out." I manage to squeak. He's rummaging around in the kitchen as if he didn't just see my bare behind. 

"I did. Then I came back." 

"Didn't you sleep just a little?" 

"I don't need to." 

"O-oh."

"Gods, don't you guys have anything to eat around here? I'm starving." I stand there awkwardly, feeling as red as a beet, then decide on finding my way to the couch. Or should I be trying to find some food for him?

"I... I dunno. I haven't been in the kitchen." He makes a sound and slams the refrigerator door. I chew on a fingernail. "But I thought you don't need to sleep. Doesn't that mean you don't need to eat as well?" 

"We eat." He walks over to the couch and flounces down. "Nectar and ambrosia, that's food for the gods. It sustains us, but we can eat other things, too." Nectar. I remember that. 

"That's the stuff the doctor gave me. Nectar, I mean." 

"Yeah, and if he gave you any more than he did, you'd probably be a pile of ashes by now." 

What? Like the feeling of eating a bag of orange acidic or Joan-of-Arc ashes? I pale at either idea. "I can't eat it? Then why'd he give it to me?" 

"It has healing properties. You could eat it if you like, but it's pretty strong stuff, so you should only eat a little at a time. It should be ok now, though, now that you're immortal." Immortal. I think about that. I don't think I remember the doctor giving it to me, I just know because he said so. I try thinking about what it might taste like. One time I went to the movies with my friends, and I got a huge cup of Hi-C lemonade. Only it was incredibly sour, probably the strongest lemonade I ever had that boiled all the way to my stomach. I think the lady put too much syrup in it. Maybe it's something like that. But after the last few days, I don't think I'm brave enough to try it again. 

"Ok." We sit there for a minute. Mary snorts and turns in her sleep. I can see just a hint of a smirk on Dionysus' face. "I... uh, I'm hungry, too." 

"Feel like getting some coffee, maybe?" 

"I smelled a donut shop not far from here," I explain. He's already getting up and grabbing his coat. "B-but I can get it by myself, if you like." That's what servants are supposed to do, after all. He turns around and tosses his coat at me. I yelp at it hits me straight in the face. 

"Don't be stupid. You just recovered. You shouldn't go running around by yourself. Also, put that on. It's unnaturally cold around here." 

———

We walk down the street, closely packed together to avoid all the other swarms of people rushing around us. So much hustle, so early in the day. By this time school would be starting, wouldn't it? Only, I think it's July, so my friends are doing something else. July, already. When I disappeared, it was near the end of April. A big chunk of my life, totally destroyed. Not to mention all my hopes for a perfect school year dashed. Not that it matters anymore. When I think about it, I get queasy. Are my parents still looking for me? They must be worried sick. My friends, too? I know Mom and Dad will probably never stop looking for me, but everyone at school must've had a service for me, collected donations and then continued on with their lives. That's what we did for all the unfortunates. Even though just going to the service sounds like a good deed, it's my service. I realize that only now. The idea depresses me. 

I'm jerked out of my thoughts when I glance up and catch Dionysus looking at me. "Feeling alright?" I nod as energetically as I can. How miserable can you be when you're going on a breakfast date with a god... if you can call it that, I mean. Like I said, I'm not sure what he expects of me. Even when I look away, I feel his eyes burning into me, like he means to see through my clothes. The idea that he can read my mind crosses me. Heat creeps up my neck again, but I try not to let it show. His coat's pretty warm. The feeling of it makes me jitter secretly. I grab a fistful of fabric inside my pocket, battling in my mind of whether it boils be considered a holy relic or something I should be throwing off myself in fear it'll turn to ashes. Imagine me, wearing God's coat! It's not divine-looking, obviously. It's a big navy blue parka that reaches down to my thighs, but with all the other things mismatched about me, it hardly matters. I didn't have any shoes of my own, so I put on Mary's black-checkered vans. When we came down to the lobby earlier, the front desk lady, along with the family she was servicing—several kids and their parents and a grandma—made critical looks at me, even though it could've been my imagination. I only finger-combed my hair halfway. Then one of the little kids said,   
"Nana, that girl's wearing her pajamas!" 

I sigh to myself. He was right, I never would have made it this far without him dragging me, even though the donut shop isn't that far away at all. We arrive there in what feels like even less than 5 minutes, and the place is already packed. Daisy's Donuts. We walk in and we're pressed up against the glass wall that faces the outside, but wow, the smell here is great. I want to believe it's worth the wait, but I don't know if a divine presence like Dionysus believes anything is. "Maybe there's another place close by," I offer. He looks around. 

"No, here is fine." I'm about to alert him to the fact that there's absolutely nowhere to sit when all of a sudden, people start rushing out the door by the dozen. They don't even bother to take their coffees or the pastries they were probably waiting so long for, they just abruptly leave like a bomb's been discovered. The funny thing is how they avoid us in a perfect circle as they walk out the door. I lock stunned eyes with the blonde woman at the counter as Dionysus strides up and says, "I'll have a raspberry jelly-filled donut and a coconut milk latte." 

The woman stares at him in a mix of shock and awe. "Y-yes, sir," she finally sputters. "And will that be a, uh, small, medium or large?" 

"Large. What about you?" He looks at me and it's my turn to stammer. 

"Uh, can I please have a... small iced caramel macchiato, and... I think we should take something to go for Mary." He shrugs. 

"We'll take a box, then." 

———

We sit at a table in the back by the window as a few people start to walk in again. I guess from here, she thinks we can't see her, but the employee sneaks a picture of Dionysus with her phone. "She must think you're an actor or something." I try saying lightly. He sips his coffee while watching people outside. 

He doesn't answer and I sit there feeling awkward. They're all just puny humans to him, anyway. That's what he probably thinks, I mean. I take a pumpkin donut out of the box and start nibbling on it. It's really delicious. 

"Thank you for taking care of me. I'm feeling a lot better." By that, I mean to follow up by maybe daring to ask if I can visit my family, but he looks at me from the corner of his eye. 

"Yeah? Good. Then we can get down to business." 

"Business?"

"You were talking about our bargain last night, but we still haven't fulfilled your side." His eyes are burning with an eerily mischievous light. "We're going to get revenge, aren't we?" 

Revenge? The little pieces of donut fall like iron in my stomach. "On... Flynn, you mean?" 

"Not just him. Surely there's others who've done you plenty of harm? Associates of his, maybe?" I put down the donut, not feeling hungry anymore. Others? More like... too many to count. Out of all the swimming faces, who can I remember? I know I even went to school with some of them, but I don't even remember their names. Mike, Cameron, Louis. All of it melding together into a very big grotesque picture that makes my bones clatter.

"Yes," I say weakly. "there is." 

"Thought so." He smiles grimly while swirls his coffee, like it's a cup of wine. "Bridget, have you ever watched The Grudge?"


	14. Coronis’ Failed Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is kind of a little side story that I have going on that may or may not intertwine with the main story. Idfk I don't plan these things well, all I want is to write a little simple fluff, so enjoy. (CoronisXAsclepius-centric)

Coronis stood outside the Orchids at Palm Court, 7 sharp. She just came from Flora's hotel, and barely managed to make it out alive—let alone on time—with her friend's fretting over the precision on her appearance. There was some kind of band parade going on downtown. Bright neon lights flashed against the windows of the building. The night felt unnaturally cool on her legs, bare from the shins down. She did look perfect. Even she had to admit that. Her skin was smooth and white as abalone, her ebony hair slicked back into a fishtail braid down her back. The dark eyeshadow that Flora applied was impeccable, as well as the glittery blue halter dress she let her borrow... Gods, what was she doing here? 

A vacation, that's all she asked for. Patience had stretched thin like a skin over a drum in Thessaly. Too many impossible demands for her services, too much high-strung drama among the immortals who lived there, which she certainly did not want to get tied up in. And so, that's why she took Flora up on her offer, and left all of that behind for one summer, so that she could spend that time in America. Perhaps she could study art abroad, travel the whole country, even. Earn back some of the inspiration now lost to her. Instead... she found herself rooted in Ohio by the whims of a god, who she'd accidentally caught the fancy of. Asclepius, god of healing, son of the Olympian prince Phoebus Apollo. How lucky she was! Only she didn't feel lucky. Maenads didn't date—no, it was more like they didn't date other gods than the one they worshipped, unless that god gave his own permission. And Coronis, of all maenads, certainly was not a dating woman. Only that Dionysus did give his permission—out of a favor he needed from Asclepius—and so, here she was, awaiting him. 

She clutched her jacket harder to herself. Why did it have to be here of all places? It was July, wasn't it? Summers were never this cold in Thessaly. It must have been at least 50-something degrees, tops. And where was Asclepius, anyways? He did say to meet at 7, sharp. She tried to keep in mind that it wasn't her place to question him, but no matter who you are, being stood up will at least irk you a little. 

Coronis stood there, paced around a little, ignoring all the amorous stares she got from the well to-do businessmen circling the lobby, and was about to just call Dionysus and explain Asclepius didn't show up until—speak of the devil! He showed up. He pulled up in a sleek black limousine—or rather he was being driven, and when he got out of the car it was like a scene from a movie, the dashing hero that emerges like a star, only Asclepius wasn't just dashing. Like his father before him, he was completely and utterly dazzling. He was a young god still, not a single imperfection on his smooth, angular face—aside from a sunburned blush and some freckles across his nose, but that only seemed to work out in his favor. His molten hair was styled in a sort of quiff, only that it was boyishly curly on the top. He wore a pretty light gray suit, with a purple flower tucked into his pocket. It even gave Coronis a little bit of secret satisfaction to see the men who were eyeing her watch with their gobs slack open, or to turn away fuming under their breaths like petty boys. He hopped out of the car and gave her a sheepish grin. "So sorry I'm late. Had to look my best, y'know. You didn't wait long, did you?" She gave a(falsely) sympathetic smile. 

"Of course not, Lord Asclepius. It's an honor you'd take such liberties with your appearance just for me." 

He threw back his head with laughter. "Oh, come on now, flattery will get you everywhere. Shall we go in?" She nodded as he offered his arm to her. It wasn't like she didn't think he was charming, he really was. It was only, being who she was, she couldn't help being cynical about men no matter their race, god or human. And if anyone could learn anything, it was that gods were trickier than humans. "For real, though, I think we should just toss formalities aside. We already know who we are, so let's just try and have a normal date like normal people." Like normal people. Like anything about their circumstances were normal. Coronis felt like that was something gods always said, until they felt offended. That was everyone except Dionysus, of course. Coronis gave a smile. 

"Sure, that would be lovely." 

When they walked into the restaurant, a waiter immediately directed them to seats near the bar without a word—more god trickery, Coronis knew. Asclepius pulled out her seat for her, which she sat in as gracefully as she could manage. "I'll have a simple white wine, too start."

"And for the lady?" The waiter nodded to Coronis. 

"Ah, I'll have a negroni, please, if that's alright." He nodded as he jotted notes down in his little notepad, then left. 

"A fruity drink for a fruity girl." Asclepius noted. "Though I did think you would go for some wine. Stereotypes, I guess." Coronis shrugged. 

"A girl can vary her tastes from time to time." 

"Duly noted. You look beautiful, by the way." Unwilling participant or no, she couldn't stop the blush on her cheeks. She touched her braid. 

"Thank you. My friend Flora wouldn't stop changing me in and out. It was exhausting." 

"No kidding. Flora wouldn't happen to be a cosmetologist, now, would she?" Coronis laughed dryly. Just then, the waiter returned with their drinks. She took a delicate sip of hers. Delicious. 

"And while flattery gets me everywhere, flattery's going to get you nowhere." He gave a coy smile. 

"At least I tried." They sat there for a short minute, taking the time to savor their drinks, and all the meanwhile Coronis was trying to find a way to ask him the question that bugged at her since the moment she'd received his flowers. 

The contents in her glass had thinned and she started. "So, now that we're acting casual, I have to admit this is a little unprecedented. This whole... date, I mean. I'm sure I've never met you before, at least in person." Asclepius raised his eyes at her. 

"Really? I'm sure we were introduced way back when... you know, that party." Coronis quirked an eyebrow and he couldn't keep a straight face. "Ok, that's a lie." 

"Thought so."

"The truth is, you remember that museum you visited, about 2 weeks ago? What was it... the Spiritual Art exhibit?" Coronis' mouth dried. 

"You were stalking me?" He flushed. 

"I wouldn't say stalking. More like, I just happened to be there and you caught my eye. I know an immortal when I see one, eh?" He sighed, swirled his wine a bit and sipped on it. "I'll admit you looked familiar, I just didn't know where. All I knew was that I wanted to ask you out for a drink. Only, you disappeared suddenly." 

"It was crowded, wasn't it?" 

"I was desperate, you know. I've been out of the old game for a while, been busy with work. Guess all that time tucked up made me a little passionate. But I knew you had to come from somewhere, so I searched up all the gods who were visiting the area, and who else but old Uncle Dio? Who would've thought, hm?" She found herself staring into her glass again, the thick chunks of ice melting. 

"Yes, well, all's well that ends well." 

———

It wasn't the worst meeting she'd had. They ordered their entrees, made good chatter for the rest of the evening... well, it was more or less Asclepius who did the talking. But he wasn't too bad to listen to, and Coronis was always more of a person who listened, anyways. It felt like an adult listening to the excited whims of a young child. During the span of nearly an hour and a half, she learned nearly everything there was to know about the god: his medical career, his 5 beloved daughters, who also helped with said career. By the way, he was considered the family doctor on Olympus. He was so glad to be needed by everyone, only that the title sometimes felt like more trouble than it was worth. It seemed like every day he was traveling because of new illnesses, new medicines to be discovered and tested and the like—oh, but it wasn't like he didn't enjoy his work, though. He only wished he had more opportunities to be out and about, like right now with Coronis. Maybe that's why Epione divorced him... 

He started as if he'd woken even himself. "Oh, I don't mean to unload all that on you, though." Coronis shrugged. 

"Of course, it's nice to listen." Why not? After tonight he might just get bored and chase after another girl, and Coronis' job would be finished. He sat forward, his arms crossed over the table. 

"Well anyway, what about you? What's your deal with Dionysus?" Coronis was taken aback. She was sure he knew who at least her connection with the god. Didn't he just rave about how he'd worked so hard to track her down? 

"Er, well, I'm a close follower of his." He widened his eyes suddenly as if in realization. He snapped his fingers. 

"Oh right, a maenad. That's what you girls are called, right?" She nodded. 

"We dedicate our lives to him. And he looks after us. I've known him for a long time. He trusts me a lot." She couldn't help the little of pride in her voice, which was bitten back by Asclepius' dry laugh. "What is it?" He waved his hand. 

"Oh, sorry, I don't mean to offend you. It's just... well, you make it sound like you're his girlfriend or something. Kind of scared me." It took her a minute to understand his implications. Then her stomach began to boil. She tried to keep a straight face. 

"Well, suppose I could be. Why?" 

"Well, no offense, but I don't think normal people makes their girlfriend go on dates with other people." 

"Lord Dionysus has done a lot for me." Coronis managed, even though it was barely above a whisper. "He's helped me more times than I can count. And he has a deal with you, so I'll do whatever I can to repay him." Asclepius shrugged obliviously. 

"Sounds kind of unfair to me. I mean, it's a shame he doesn't notice you. Doesn't he ever take you out like this? That's what I'd do, anyway—wait, I guess I'm already doing it." He snorted at himself, while Coronis took the time to feel a powerful blow sink into her shoulders. Inexplicably, tears stung the corner of her eyes. She stood up abruptly. 

"Pardon me, I don't feel well." She dug into her purse and put a wad of cash on the table as politely as she could. How much, she didn't know or care. She just needed to get out of there. Asclepius started out of his seat, clearly perplexed by the sudden change. 

"Er, wait! Don't you need me to walk you home?" 

"No thank you." She said, her voice tight. "No need to trouble yourself with me. Goodnight, it's been lovely." And she turned and left without looking back. 

She didn't stop to return the startled looks from the people around her, didn't stop until she had completely exited the building. She marched angrily down the dark street, with no real destination in mind other than to get away from that place, that... that god. How dare he? No matter who he was, Dionysus was first, and he'd insulted him. She inhaled deeply as she walked to the end of the street. 8:40. It was more chilly than ever but she ignored it, like the heat of her anger protected her from the cold. And the dinner! Scallops is what she ordered, so that it would seem she wasn't too choosy. And it was delicious, only that it didn't exactly fill her up, which made her more mad. The downtown area was chock-full of diners and bakeries. The first bar she saw—a place called the Lucky Lemon—she stomped right in. 

There weren't a lot of people in, just a few denim-wearing old men and women spread around the place, swirling their drinks anemically. She marched up to the bar and slumped onto a stool. The young bartender stood there, wiping the inside of a large jug with a cloth. He looked up at her with an amused face. "Bad night?" Coronis sighed heavily, pressing her fingers to the side of her head. 

"You could say that. Have anything to eat?" He shrugged. 

"The special today is supposed to be Swiss burgers."

"Than I'll have that and a Long Island ice tea." 

"Man! Definitely a rough night. Comin' up." There was a door on his side to the kitchen that she could easily look through. He shot her a gaze while he slashed ingredients onto the grill. "Wouldn't mind tellin' me about it, would you? It's been boring with all these geezers." She lay her head over her crossed arms and sighed again, taking a deep smell of everything: the stale liquor, the wood, the coats, the gamey smell of the sizzling burger. 

"Oh, well, it was a date, I suppose. Things didn't work out." The only way she could tell he was listening as he whipped around the kitchen slapping things together was how he nodded thoughtfully—almost sympathetically at her statement. She wound up resting her chin on her palm. "He made me mad, so I left." 

"Oof, that's a shame. More of a shame for your guy, I'd say, for getting on such a pretty lady's wrong side. Here you go." He came out with a plate of waffle fries and a whopping burger with Swiss cheese and fried onions. The big mug of ice tea seemed almost pink. "I hope you don't mind, just me doing wishful thinking." He added as he put the spread down in front of her. She smiled, hoping it didn't look as weary as she felt. 

"Ah. I don't think so on that front. He's a lot prettier than me." She warmed her fingers around the mug, chilly and perspiring from inside. Gripping it hard, she picked up the glass and tipped it far against her mouth and she gulped, gulped, gulped. It was a far cry from the best Long Island she'd had, but it was strong and that's all she needed. She drank as deeply as she wanted to forget the regrettable evening with the Asclepius, son of Apollo, family doctor.   
By the time she put down the mug again it was completely empty. She stared at it for a second, licking her moist lips, feeling strangely vacant. She looked up to meet the astonished eyes of the bartender. 

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone drink that fast." he muttered. "You should pace yourself." She gave him a crookedly grim smile. 

"I'm an all-time alcoholic, dear. You don't need to worry about me."


	15. The First Vengeance

On Saturday July 15th, Micheal Scott lay in his bed at 4 am. 

For an indiscernible amount of time, he lay there contemplating his surroundings. This was his house, his bedroom. His eyes adjusted to the darkness so that he could see the posters on his ceiling with perfect clarity. He strained to see the clock on his bedside from the corner of his eye. From this, he numbly estimated to have only been asleep for about 5 hours: more than any time he'd slept in the last year—and what's more—in the last week. Poor Bridget Henshel, now dead... at least, that's what they initially thought. Poor old Flynn too, who erupted into such a clatter of nerves that they were all up on their asses searching for the mysterious body that evaporated into thin air. Somehow, Micheal wasn't worried at all, though. How could the body disappear as quickly as Flynn said, without a logical explanation? "Must be ghosts. Cops don't believe in ghosts." That's what Michael thought, and he honestly believed it. He said so to everyone except Flynn himself, who would no doubt fly into another rage if he did.   
His fan blared in the corner of the room, blowing around musty air uselessly. The sheets beneath him sucked his body heat until he felt as if he were stuck in a vat of hot wet beach sand. Even then, there was nothing he could do about it as he couldn't move even a bit. Sleep paralysis, again. Pressure built against Micheal's chest as he breathed a harsh sigh of annoyance. He hated being like this, unable to do anything, even scarcely breathe. If his mom decided to come in all of a sudden, there'd be nothing he could do about it but lie there in stupid shame as she scolded him to take down all his 'inappropriate' pictures. Only it was way too late in the night for that, so there was nothing else he could do but lie there and think. 

Good old Flynn. Poor old Flynn. His head, flying every which way. It was all bullshit in his own opinion. Flynn said he was in love with her, can you believe? Micheal could've admitted he liked her too, a little—she was a lovely girl, she really was—only, real boyfriends don't hand out their girlfriends like prostitutes. It's not that Micheal was complaining anyway. It's just that, now the fun and games were over, it felt like a bit of a shame, really. He tried thinking of Bridget Henshel in the front office, having a pleasant conversation with a teacher while sipping a mug of coffee, her uniform all smooth and ironed.   
After everything he'd witnessed, it was hard to picture. It was much easier—surprisingly easier—to picture her as one of the girls on his posters, all exposed, legs open, mouths out. The horribly funny thing was he didn't feel guilty at all, or scared. Just depressed and thinking of how bullshit it all was. All this trouble, over some girl he felt like banging. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

It was just then, that the fan suddenly shut off. Not in a quiet way, instead it made a noise so sharp that's Micheal's whole body jolted, only that he was still paralyzed. It must've been his soul trying to jump out of his body but stone cold as it was, he panged within it like a metal ball inside an arcade game. The fan screeched to a halt, like someone stuck a metal comb in between the blades, and then it stopped very suddenly. He inwardly frowned, struggling to look at it from across the room. Did it bust finally? It was pretty old, after all. He tried to remind himself of that, despite the eerie feeling that suddenly draped itself over him. He stared up at his posters and a cold gripped him in the chest.   
The eyes of the girl were looking at him. It was like, they were always facing the camera giving sensual gazes, but now it seemed their eyes burned into him, almost as if they were really alive as they stared down at him in contempt. He lay there, feeling clammy and his heart racing. He shut his eyes to try and avoid it all. This wasn't anything new, these night terrors. Just another upside to sleep paralysis. It happened every so often—much more often when he was younger—but it didn't amount to as much as this did. It was because the weight in his chest became harder and harder, until he gasped for breath, tasting something horribly rotten in the air. He wondered if it was more night terrors, or if he actually heard—felt—something breathing against his face. 

A shrill sound pierced the air, something that almost sounded like the fan breaking again but not that at all at the same time. It was like... a giggle. He couldn't take it anymore and snapped his aching eyelids open, only to discover something horrifying. 

The body of Bridget Henshel sat on top of him. 

A scream stuck in his throat. She was the same as when Flynn had killed her, but she had changed for the worse. Her face had decayed. Maggots squirmed around in the gummy redness that hung onto her. Her eyes were huge, bulging, no longer a pretty green hazel but red and veiny and glazed over with yellow pus. Sheets of gray skin dragged on her like robes. She was merely an inch from Micheal's horrified face as she suddenly pitched a wild scream, her limbs extorting and twisting in the most inhuman way possible. Brown fluids and bugs flew off her and onto his sheets, his face. And all the while he was helpless, unable to move or do anything but sit there in mute terror. She was dead. She was dead. She was dead. This was the real Bridget Henshel, not the pretty goody-two shoes from the office or the slutty one from Flynn's apartment. So horrified that he was that he didn't see the girls crawling out of the pictures, or the black figure in the corner, sitting in his chair, watching the whole spectacle. Then they were all around him, circled around the bed like he was a feast for them. Their beautiful faces distorted into empty black sockets and bloody mouths, to the point you could see flesh in between their teeth. Sweat covered Micheal's face in a thick layer. This isn't real. 

But he felt the cold rawness of Bridget's fingers as she grabbed his face. Her ugly mouth, crawling with flies, unhinged like the way mouths did in horror movies, and then at that horrible moment, he broke out of his paralysis. He thrashed, screamed a terrible scream as Bridget swallowed his entire head. He choke in the darkness on her fluids, bugs crawling into his mouth. 

Then his heart exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to add that I didn’t mean to name the first victim Micheal Scott after the guy from The Office. I ran it through with my editor and she commented on it lol. But I just kept his name as was because, I dunno, it feels like a funny Easter egg.


	16. Pep Talk

Mary lay spread legged on the couch, yawning loudly as she scratched her breast. 7 o'clock, already a new day. Nothing to really speak of, except that she'd been able to fit 2 whole waffles in her mouth for dinner. Also, she'd actually woken up early for the first time in like... ever. She flipped through channels boredly. Nothing good was ever on in the mornings, anyway. Not even on Cartoon Network. Frickin' Teen Titans Go, ruining the whole franchise. She threw her head back, letting loose an agonized sigh. She missed Dionysus, and Bridget too. Where'd they go? She was sure they must be having oodles and noodles of fun without her. She wondered how Bridget would be fairing especially. She was a nice kid, really she was. Still, she struck Mary as a prude, definitely. 

"...al Scott was found dead in his bedroom this morning, at 3am." 

"Hah?" Mary looked up. She'd accidentally switched to the News channel, which was boring as balls. All Obama lied this, school shootings that... A woman reporter with an 80s hairdo was speaking with a picture of an apartment building behind her. 

"The 16 year old was discovered in his bed, seemingly asleep when his mother came to check on him. According to her, she believed she heard a scream from his bedroom and rushed to check on him. However, when she arrived, there was nothing out of the ordinary, except that she found that her son was not breathing. She claims that Micheal frequently suffered from nightmares and sleep paralysis. Investigators suspect that he died of a heart attack in his sleep..." The sound of the door clicking made Mary jump slightly. Dionysus came flouncing in, laughing gleefully as he slipped off his coat. 

"Gods above, that was great! I didn't know you were an actress." 

"Uhuh." Bridget looked tired. Her skin was pale, and her eyes had a kind of ferocity to them. Average night out, Mary guessed. She came walking stiffly behind him, and while the god of wine sunk into a chair, she remained standing a distance away. Mary squinted. Dionysus' cheeks looked like 2 blotchy dots against paper. He was smiling that smile, the one when he was in the mood to pick someone's nose. Drunkard. 

"I can't believe it." She whined. "You guys snuck off without me. I bet you were having loads of fun, weren't you?"

"Want to guess? Check the telly." She did. Then it cut to another woman standing outside the apartment building. She was middle-aged and in tears. 

"I just can't believe it." She spoke between sobs. "This has happened so many times before, but we never really worried about it. My Micheal had his faults, that's for sure, but he was a good boy. He always did his best in school and he had friends to support him. I mean, we're good Christians. I can't understand why all this is happening..." It cut back to the reporter. 

"Meanwhile, we have another rather distressing report. It seems that the mysterious disappearance of Bridget Henshel may be very well be solved. Around midnight last night, 3 boys, David Peterson, Andrew Hughs, and Jose Garcia—respectively—reported themselves to the police as guilty of kidnapping 16 year old Bridget Henshel. 2 of 3 boys, coincidentally, attend the same school as both Micheal Scott and Bridget Henshel, Sacred Heart in Cincinnati Ohio. Perhaps there is a connection? Investigators are rather wary, though, as all 3 boys seem to be suffering from an identical episode of mania. It is a possibility that drugs were involved. More on that later...   
"Meanwhile, we have Tod with the weather." A shudder wracked the sofa. Mary looked up and found it was Bridget, clutching the edges so tightly she may have ripped the fabric off. Her face was sweaty and so pale she looked a solid shade of green. Mary jumped up warily, not quite in the mood to be puked on. 

"Are you gonna be sick again?" She shook her head slowly. 

"We still have so many to go." Dionysus watched the screen blandly; he'd already sobered up. "But there's plenty concepts to go around. Next time, I'm thinking Human Centipede." 

"Not that." Bridget mumbled. Meanwhile, Mary's heart sped up to a hundred miles an hour as her gaze crossed between the girl, the god, and the TV. Some super secret they were hoping to surprise her with? 

"Are we going hunting?" Her voice was tremulous with excitement. 

"You can tag along next time, if you like." 

"Please let me come." She clasped her hands, practically begging. "I can do the centipede, too." She could feel Bridget's horrified gaze searing the back of her head but she only smirked to herself. If she couldn't be the first one to go, then she'd do even better the next time. 

"You may." She squealed with joy and hugged him. 

"May I go?" Bridget peeped. 

"You may." She made a beeline for the bedroom. The door closed, not as loud as a slam but enough to make Mary wary. Dionysus was stony-faced, staring off somewhere in the distance as if he'd left his body, even though he was sitting up quite straight in his seat. 

——— 

Bridget 

I don't know what I'm doing here. 

Housekeeping came around. I curl into a tight ball underneath the fresh sheets, sweet-smelling and uncreased. Everything feels soft and cushy, I make it so that I can't even hear the endless drone of the TV. Painful queasiness spreads over my chest.   
I killed him. I killed that boy.   
I do remember him, even though I don't want to because the nausea is returning as rapidly as water over a broken dam. Through a blurry haze he was on top of me, and he... I jackknife into a sitting position and run to the bathroom. I bend over the toilet and gag, but nothing comes out but a dribble of stomach acid. My body convulses as I sink into a bent position, clutching the edges of the pristine toilet seat. I killed someone. I can't deny that while I was being held captive, I made at least a 100 wishes a day that they would all die, or some calamity would occur where they disappeared without a trace and then I'd be free. Free and safe. But I... I never thought about killing anyone. The fear of God is so ingrained in me since birth that murder felt like something only people of a different species committed. I could never even picture myself doing anything like that but I did, just now. Only hours ago, I scared Micheal Scott to death—literally. 

But I'd also had my revenge against him.   
An icy feeling envelopes me. My stomach makes odd noises. I haven't eaten since that fateful breakfast date, but I can't think of doing anything, except hurling up my own stomach. I feel... terrible. But I also feel light, like a weight's been lifted off me. Is this how it will be from now on? He was horrified when he saw me. I'll be able to do the same, and much worse to whoever I like. The idea makes my head swirl.   
I don't know if I can follow through with taking revenge. It would be much nicer if Dionysus did it for me, somewhere I couldn't see. But I know that he will absolutely make me do it. He hasn't flown into a rage once, but his eyes are as cold as dried blood. He's capable of awful things, I'm sure. He terrifies me, almost as much as I'm afraid of Hell. For a minute an horrible thought crosses me, wondering if that wouldn't be kinder. 

The door creeks open and I shudder. Mary's in the doorway, but I can't think of that as comforting. Human Centipede is not a nice movie. To anyone who hasn't watched it, just don't. "Are you feeling really ill again?" I shake my head. It's nowhere as bad as before, but with this horrible guilt it sort of balances them both. She walks in, spots the little mess in the toilet, and makes a face. I blush as she flushes and flips the seat down, so she sits just opposite from me. I draw my knees up to my chin. For a minute we're quiet. "I can't believe you actually feel bad." 

"I'm not cut out for this. I want to quit." 

"You can't. Until he says so, you can't." My eyes burn. I don't just feel bad over Micheal. These people have been good to me. But they're not my people. They're apart of another world entirely. She sighs. 

"At least you have it easier. I killed my parents, you know." God! She stares off into nothing. 

"Did they do something bad to you?" 

"Yeah. We were all dysfunctional. My dad only came home for money. My mom got drunk and she hit me a lot. They wanted to marry me to an older guy. I thought about killing myself or running away a lot. I ended up doing both." 

"I'm so sorry." She shrugged as if it were no big deal. 

"It's ok. I'm glad I did it, or else I wouldn't be where I am today. And he," She eyed the door. "wanted me to kill them, as proof of my devotion. At first I was glad to. He was everything to me, my only way out. So I didn't hesitate, but after that... I felt terrible. They were shitty, but they were still my family. That's the natural way, I reckon."   
I end up really crying. For Mary, mostly, because I feel so weak in comparison. My parents never hit me. I can't even imagine it. And I would never, in a million years, kill my family. I wonder how they must be feeling, now that I'm back on the news. It must be hard. More than anything, I want to go to them and tell them I'm ok. "But I think he was actually helping me, by making me do it. I felt bad, but I felt light. Like I could do anything, nothing could hurt me. It's thanks to him that I never have to feel scared or sad anymore." 

"It's not the same." I weep. I'm not acolyte material, I don't think.   
But how different is it, really? She described all the things I'm feeling now. What's the difference? What's the difference? For the life of me, I can't find one.


	17. Coronis Paints, and Also She Gets a Text

Her butt hurt. Coronis took a minute to stand up, her body stiff, and stretch. Multiple parts of her cracked like dry branches in a fire. A layer of gamsole and sticky paint caused her hands to itch. Flora, who was a strong environmentalist, refused to install air con in her flat. A bead of sweat trickled down Coronis' neck. It wasn't easy being an artist, but she had weathered much worse hardships, and she had been too deep in her element to notice until now, anyways. Standing back, she gazed at the painting with a critical eye. It was meant to be a interpretation of the most recent bacchanal, both otherworldly as well as viscous. An enormous black dog sat in the pit of an enormous bonfire, while the faceless forms of women blurred around him, red trees with hands swaying in the wind under a greasy green sky. She was always careful to be ambiguous about her work, enough imagery to give both mortals and immortals alike a taste of the wine god's aesthetic, as well as the world that accompanied him. At the same time, she would never correctly predict what exactly went on in the bacchanals, the secrets they kept. This way, she managed to earn a hefty sum while keeping Dionysus appeased. "A worthy enough advertiser," is what he said, causing her cheeks to warm even now. 

"Fuck's sake," she muttered, chewing a fingernail without remembering that it was slick with gamsole. She heard feet shuffling down the stairs. 

"Wow! Looks pretty good." Flora put down her watery bucket to analyze it. "It's, dare I say, magical." 

"No, it's not. The trees aren't shaded well enough, the green's too vivid, and our body parts look all weird. We look like spiders." 

"That's what you think." Above Coronis' whining, Flora shrugged. "From my standing, I know zilch about art, so I think it'll be just fine as long as you sell it to someone who isn't as uptight an artist as you." 

"Oh, he looks like a goat. Do you think it will make him mad if I keep it like this?" 

"Is it for him?" 

"No." 

"Then who cares? Just leave it alone and help me shuck these." Coronis looked suspiciously at the bucket. 

"Oysters?" 

"Snails. We're having escargot for dinner." Coronis made a disgusted sound and Flora laughed. 

"No thanks. I'm going out to buy gold leaf soon, anyway. If you need something, let me know." 

"A handsome boyfriend would be nice." 

"Durhurhur." She went to the bathroom. Scrubbing the chemicals out from under her nails was a long and tedious process, especially when she heard Flora shout, 

"Don't let the water run!" She groaned and grabbed some hand sanitizer off the shelf. Then she re-did her hair into a tighter ponytail, wiped the sweat from her neck. She only just grabbed her jacket when she heard her phone buzz. When she checked it she did a double-take. It was from Asclepius. 

"Hello" 

She pressed a hand against her clammy forehead. Truth be told, she'd actually forgotten about that night for the most part. At first she woke up in her bed, a migraine hanging over her like a black cloud and Flora scolding her for getting so drunk. She also begged her for details, although Coronis herself couldn't really remember at first. The more awake she was, the more she wished it had stayed that way. She couldn't believe herself, how stupid she was. Asclepius was probably seething with rage by now! If she was lucky, she would never see him again and if she wasn't, he would probably send some kind of vengeance her way for being such an unaccommodating date. Now, she realized she was the latter. 

"How did you get this number"

"It wasn't that hard..."   
"Just asked Dionysus"   
"Do you think I'm a stalker?" 

Oh my gods. 

"I'm sorry about the other day.   
I really wasn't feeling well."

"No, it's ok. I know I was   
being insensitive."

"I didn't say you were" 

"To be truthful, I want to   
see you again"  
"I was hoping   
you would allow me to   
make it up to you..."

Oh, man. Heart beating rapidly, she weighed the possibilities of turning him down versus the latter. Finally, she typed. 

"Listen, I'm touched, I really am.   
I really appreciate you understanding,   
but if last week was anything  
to go by, we wouldn't make   
a compatible couple..." 

"Is that you saying   
you don't like me" 

"No, just that I'm not   
a dating person. You were   
the exception"

"That must account   
for something 😎" 

"I hope you don't get offended   
but I wouldn't like to   
relive the experience" 

"I know I messed up and all,   
but I was hoping at least we could   
become friends. No hard feelings" 

She felt like she was wasting a grand opportunity. If he wasn't just luring her into a false sense of security, he really was trying to apologize. And if she turned him down now, he'd definitely be upset this time. Now she was squatting on the closed toilet, chewing her nails off and then spitting the bitter gamsole out. It wasn't her plan for the next milliena to become pregnant, but altering her body in any way seemed like an unwise choice. The date hadn't been so bad, now that she was thinking back on it. Not really. He meant well, and from now on, she'd just have to work harder to hold back her tongue.   
And really, what choice did she have?   
Finally, her shoulders sagged as she sighed heavily. She tapped the next message with twitchy fingers. 

"Do you like escargot"


	18. The Day I Met David

Bridget

Nothing has prepared me for this moment. I've tried over and over again to prep myself, tell myself that none of this is my fault, it's his. You're not enforcing any of this. This is something you are being forced to stand witness to. This is the price you have to pay.  
But the truth is I really haven't given up any resistance at all. It's way past school hours and I sit in an elevated chair in my old English class. Under different circumstances, if the place weren't arranged as a courtroom from hell, I might have cried from the sheer relief of being in a familiar environment. The person tethered to the podium is someone I wish I would never have to see again in my whole life. 

~*~

David and I met almost halfway through the school year. We shared some classes together, and we'd seen each other around school plenty of times, but the truth is we'd never really spoken. It was around early May this year, when it had really started to warm up. Genoise and Daisy and I met outside after school. I remember the sun shining brightly, not a cloud in the sky, heat warming through the thin cloth of our school uniforms and making us sweat. "It's sweltering." Genoise lifted her blond hair over her shoulder, which was super long at the time. "I could really go for some ice cream right now." 

"Me too." I sighed. At least it wasn't as stuffy out on the street as it was in the classroom. We'd been assigned groups for the new Lit project. We all had to make elaborate stands about Shakespeare plays. My group got Hamlet. Genoise shrugged.

"You're buying."

"Why?"

"Because I bought you Burger King. Remember, when we ditched the pep rally?" I groaned. I didn't want to remember that time. I don't know how Genoise can get away with anything and I can't. Somehow Mr. Rumberg saw me leaving the gym, but not her. The first thing I was greeted to when I got home was Dad lecturing me for 2 hours on why I need to participate in school activities because he donated a lot to the parent's committee and so I need to make a good impression and so on and so forth... but I wasn't a leech. 

"Ah, fine." Daisy was leaving for the bus. 

"You guys can go, but I need to get started on the project right away. I got stuck with Connor and Travis."

"Ah, the bums." Genoise grinned. "Have fun." We waved her off and started off downtown, but now before I caught eyes with someone I'd rather not have. Genoise elbowed me. "Hey, look. It's your admirer." I frowned. He was standing across the street, with his leather jacket that went against the school dress code and his sleek black harley motorcycle that was something almost none of the the teenagers our age could afford in their wildest dreams. His sandy hair tousled in the warm breeze, and his gaze was a tangible thing that felt like it was touching me. There was no mistaking the unholy gleam in his eye as it slid slowly down my body and I felt flushed. Suddenly my knee-high plaid skirt didn't feel like enough. Restraining myself not to run, I quickened my pace down the street, keeping my eyes on the pavement under my feet. "That's Flynn Johnson, right? Looks like he got all dressed up today."  
"You think so?"

"He never comes to school otherwise." That was true. Everyone knew Flynn Johnson. He was a senior, and the epitome of the bad boys every pre-pubescent girl on Wattpad dreams of. The only reason I could think of as to why he went to a private Catholic school would be to show off his family's wealth. He never came to school otherwise. But nowadays he seemed to come more and more frequently. Not actually going to his classes, I reckon, but to come and see me. I couldn't understand why, though, for the life of me. I'm not the type to self-deprecate, really I'm not, but I was a plain kind of pretty, I guess. So I doubted if Flynn were so interested in me, it would be anything more than a hit-and-run. Say if I were a guy, if I saw myself and Genoise walking down the street, I'd fall in love with Genoise in a heartbeat. She was a fairytale beauty, tall and slender with a full bra, clear skin and a heart-shaped face. But even when I say things like that she objects immediately. You've got a youthful appeal, she insisted. Your eyes are big and beautiful. And I'd kill for your eyebrows. Maybe, but I would've traded these caterpillars for Genoise's elegant slim ones any day. "He's kind of cute."

"In a ragged sort of way, I guess." 

"Are you seriously not even going to talk to him? If it were me, I'd give him a chance." I couldn't stop myself from giving her an aghast stare. 

"N-no way!" I stammered. "I can't stand greasy men! With their self-satisfied smirking and swaggering around." She laughed. 

"I don't think you can stand men in general, Bridget. You've never had a boyfriend." 

"That's not true. Remember I kissed Andrew Scull that one time."

"In the janitor's closet, you mean? That was middle school. I'm pretty sure Andrew Scull's a druggie right now." 

"Is he really?" 

"What I mean is," She sighed, ignoring me. "I'm talking about a real boyfriend. You've never even done it." I almost tripped as we crossed the street. Done it? 

"I promised I wouldn't do it until I'm married!" 

"Ha. Prude." 

"S-so you've done it?"

"Totally." I could feel heat flooding my brain. An image of Genoise embracing some unnamed casanova crosses my mind, but the lack of personal experience didn't lead to much anyways. I quickly tried to wave it away, but I felt shamefully curious. We found an ice cream truck when I finally asked,

"Was it... good?" She smirks at me in a way that's totally out of place on a Catholic schoolgirl, but says nothing. My face feels so hot that I'm afraid it's going to melt off. If I hadn't needed ice cream minutes ago, I definitely needed it now.  
Which was bad because I wouldn't be able to buy it.  
The ice truck man waited patiently for us to order, even though I was too flustered to think of what I wanted. "Va-vanilla, please."

"What size?" 

"Oh! Uh, small?"

"Cherry jubilee for me, medium." Genoise giggled. I couldn't help but smile sheepishly. She always looked super pretty when she laughed. When I patted my skirt pocket my heart dropped into my stomach. Oh no. I patted the pockets in my backpack, my sweater, the expectant looks of Genoise and the ice truck man making me feel more and more small. 

"Uhh, my wallet's... gone." 

"Goddamn it, Bridget!" I flinched at the sound of Genoise taking the Lord's name in vain. She'd be in detention if she said that at school. "I didn't bring my wallet with me, either." 

"Oh man," I was about ready to profusely apologize to the guy when a near-miracle happened. I turned around because I thought I heard someone saying my name. They were rushing down the street towards me, and I scrunched my eyebrows, worrying it was Flynn Johnson until their features became clear and I recognized them. "Oh! You're.." I recognized David because he ended up being one of the people in my group assignment. 

"Yeah, it's me. You dropped your wallet in the classroom." He held it out to me and I took it with both hands. I was sort of weary that I might find it devoid of any more money, but I pushed that out of my head and smiled. He came all the way down here to return it, after all.  
"Thank you so much. You're seriously a lifesaver." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. 

"Seriously, it's fine. I just saw you leaving so I thought I'd just give it to you now instead of the next time." Genoise wrung her arm around me. 

"Are you kidding? You just saved us from heatstroke!"

"Yeah, you should have some with us." I said that without thinking and he started.

"No, I can't. It's really no big deal." But I was already ordering another plain vanilla for him. 

"Nonsense. This ice cream will go to waste if you don't." He seemed to consider it, then smiled at me. 

"All right. Sure, why not?" 

If I knew what was going to happen next I would have slapped him with that ice cream and ran as far away as I could.


	19. Masturbation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: the second part of this chapter has some awkward (underage) solo smut. Don't like, don't read.

Bridget

We all hung out at the curb from where we bought the ice cream. It was enough work chatting with Genoise while trying to keep my ice cream from melting that I only noticed David staring at me when I'd started crunching the cone. He smiled and I felt myself flush. He seemed like a lovely guy, nice and not bad-looking, either. With his sturdy build and broad shoulders, he seemed like a guy that could try out for the football team. His blond hair was buzz-cut. Thinking towards more practical topics, I brushed off my sticky fingers. "So, David, I was wondering what we might do for the project."

"Hamlet? That's my favorite one, you know." 

"Oh!" I didn't think he looked like someone who did Shakespeare. "What about it?"

"Oh, lots of things. It's just one of those more intense plays. The witches are my favorite. I don't know why." 

"So maybe we could decorate our stand with the witches in front? You could do those, if you want." Genoise leaned against my shoulder making snoring sounds. I waved her away and David chuckled. 

"Sure thing. Hey, how about we exchange numbers?" He ducked his head shyly. "I mean, for the project. We can talk about it better then." I nodded, giving him my phone. 

"Sure thing. Truth be told, I don't care much for Shakespeare. I'm glad you like it, at least." 

"As long as you don't flake out on me." I laughed. 

"I won't." 

After we exchanged numbers we sort of scattered out, David excusing himself because he had to head home soon, and me and Genoise walked home. We were such best friends because we lived close together. Her apartment complex was right next to mine. I hadn't realized how much time had passed until slanting orange lights reflected on the building windows. We walked up the street, the evening heat making our legs sluggish. Genoise was grinning teasingly at me. "What?"

"He's pretty good-looking, too. Look at Bridget today, racking up the beau points." I flushed, rolling my eyes. "Don't you think so, too?"

"It's too soon to decide. We're only working on a project together. We're not even friends yet." Genoise groaned.

"Friggin' Mr. Cecil. Why does he always have to give us such hard homework?" 

"Speaking of which, how goes it with that one guy? Brandon?"

"Bruce. And I dumped him, like, last week."

"Did you sleep with him?" She laughed and shoved me. 

"Just get inside before you get picked up, you virgin." I stuck my tongue out at her and ducked my head inside the building. The landlord, this old Chinese woman, passed me on my way upstairs. My apartment number was 317, the last one on the third floor. It really was a relief David found my wallet. My keys were attached, so if I'd lost it I would've gotten told off by Mom. I jangled them, unlocked the door and elbowed my way inside, fresh air-con greeting me and the sound of soft piano. My backpack felt heavier as I dragged myself through the hallway and ducked my head inside the living room. There was a familiar sight: my twin brother, Bernard, practicing his piano even though he was already a master. Bernard looks almost just like me. We have the same curly dark hair, the round face and thick eyebrows, only they suit Bernard better. He has more freckles than me and his eyes are browner. We're the same height. I'm the older twin, but only by 4 minutes so I don't really consider myself a big sister. 

"Hi." He messed the melody slightly but maintained it while he talked.

"You're home finally?"

"Yeah."

"You went somewhere fun without me?"

"Just some ice cream."

"Lucky." 

"It wasn't anything too exciting." I paused, listening. "Is that Claire de Lune?" 

"Yeah."

"Knew it. When's supper? I'm starving." He shrugged, though I wasn't expecting a real answer. I guess I'd whip up a carrot sandwich later. I dragged myself into my bedroom, closed the door, and landed on my bed in a flop. Evening light filtered through the curtains, filling my small room with dim orange glow. Hearing the faint sound of traffic outside and Claire de Lune made me sleepy. I sighed, curling on my side. To me back then, it was just another uneventful day, but I let it all replay and rewind like a tape recorder. If David did the decorations, I would write the essay and whatnot. I was good at writing, and anyways, I didn't trust my other groupmates.  
... It wasn't true, what Genoise said. It wasn't as if I didn't care about finding a boyfriend, but, well, there were plenty of other important things. Like this project, for instance. My parents and I already decided that I would wait until I was at least 30 to get married. And I would wait till marriage. I couldn't lie, everyone around me, even Genoise sleeping around with each other even though we were only sophomores made me feel... insecure, I guess? But a shallow relationship that lasted only a week didn't sit well with me.  
"’S-so you've done it?"  
"Totally.’”

I bit my lip. She never even answered my question. I wasn't totally ignorant. Me and Daisy and Kylie and some other girls, we talked about sex sometimes. It's not the same thing, I could almost hear Genoise chiding in my ears. Gossiping about it isn't even in the same category. Experience is everything. My face felt hot as I sat up and fished my computer out of my bag. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing, but I could feel guilty excitement spreading through me. In 6th grade a specialist came into our classroom to talk about sexual relations. We got separated into gender-oriented classes and the lady explained to all of us how a baby was made, sexual diseases and how we needed to be careful. The amount of disgusted and fascinated faces must have been comical, looking back. The only off thing was how when we all rejoined our classrooms, the boys bragged to us about how they were allowed to masturbate and we weren't. Despite the fact I knew it was wrong, that's the logic I used to assure myself. If boys could do it, why couldn't I? Please God, forgive me, I thought over and over to myself as I typed the words with trembling fingers: sex videos. 

It was so embarrassing, such a wrong thing to do, but if I couldn't gain any experience, observation was the next best thing, wasn't it? And me, being careless old me, clicked on the first link I saw(it was Pornhub) and I swear my eyeballs rolled back into my skull with embarrassment. There was plenty of material to choose from, I'll only say that, with dirty title captions I'm too ashamed to even try to remember. And fine, I can admit it: I clicked on the most bawdy-looking one.  
I know now that it's a pretty standard erotic scenario, the trope everybody makes fun of. You know how it all starts, with a woman in scandalous clothes lounging in a suggestive manner on her sofa in a luxurious house, impatiently waiting for her pizza, and when the bell finally rings she stomps right up to the door, her breasts and bottom jiggling like a couple of soft melons to tell the pizza guy off for being late when she has a double take at how handsome--how hunky this particular pizza guy is. So much that she can't seem to help herself when he asks for the check and she says, "Oh, I don't have any money. Isn't there possibly any other way I can repay you?" all while rubbing close against his arm and giving him seductive eyes. And the pizza guy, like the woman, can't seem to help himself. So they stumble into the house together and they kiss passionately, in the way lovers do in the movies but much more explicit, more hungry. They caress each other, whisper filthy things to each other and she is so overcome with that hunger that she puts his thing in her mouth, slobbers all over it, like a crying child being given a lollipop after her shot. And after all that, he makes her crouch on the sofa and he rams himself into her like an animal. They go at it like animals. It's vicious and painful-looking but the woman screams in a pleasurable way so it must feel good. And during all of this, the pizza, who we don't even know what kind of toppings are on it, is sitting on the floor, forgotten.  
This is a weird thing to say, but I felt like the pizza when I watched that video: completely invisible and hiding in a small box. If I were a more modest girl like I was supposed to be, I would have been disgusted by it all. Instead I watched the whole thing with morbid fascination, hand pressed hard against my burning face and a rolling sensation just below my tummy. There was that tingly feeling, sort of similar to the way you feel when you're about to pee and the feeling of moisture filling my underwear made me clench my thighs together. I felt foolish, unsure of myself as I reached a hand under my skirt and felt around under my underwear. When I poked a finger in, I jolted, surprised at the strange discomfort. It scared me so much that I pulled it right out. Then I remembered that girls bleed on their first time and I quickly decided I wouldn't repeat the act, otherwise I might've hurt myself. Instead I imitated what the woman did in the video, tentatively rubbing out the outer parts of myself. I nearly squealed at the little volt of sensation that shot through my stomach when I touched that nub. Oh, I thought as I repeated the action, more sure this time now. So that's what that's for. The experience lasted for about 5 more minutes, only me biting one hand and mumbling quick little breaths and the other one doing the movements. Fear built inside me as something else did, or something I didn't recognize. Pleasure, I guess. But it felt similar to peeing and when I peaked, I made a small keening sound of terror thinking that's just what I did. I ripped my hand out of my underwear, shut my laptop hard, jackknifed into a sitting position and stared at the bedspread between my thighs. No, I didn't wet myself. Relieved, I collapsed onto my back again. 

For a long time I laid there just like that, staring at my ceiling in the darkness. Shame and exhaustion rolled over me. I couldn't believe I'd just masterbated, I really couldn't. Now all of Genoise's teasing was nothing in comparison to the fact that I'd just done something bad, with Bernard literally right in the next room. I considered this for a while. At least, it hadn't been a bad experience.

I had nearly dozed off when my door flew open. I jumped. "M-Mom?!"

"Darling, sorry we're late. I picked up some takeout on the way home, and Daddy's brought a cake. Isn't that nice?" I rubbed my eyes. My mom's a really pretty woman. Her long brown hair was tied up in a tight bun and she still wore her doctor's jacket over her blue bodycon skirt. The smell of Chinese food wafted from the bag in her hand and she frowned at me. "Bridget, please pull down your skirt. You look like a homewrecker." I hoped I wasn't as red-faced as I felt. 

"Sorry, Mom. I fell asleep." 

"Well, wash up for dinner and join us at the table, will you?" She walked away and I sighed wearily. I sat on my knees, rolled my skirt down and found my phone on the edge of the bed. I turned it on and the first thing I thought of was to text David that we needed to bring cardboard.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for checking out my book Rage!!! This is basically a new experiment I’ve been doing about figuring out my writing style and all that. This book is meant to be the first book of my 3 book series centered around gods and unfortunate people. Yes, there will be angst. There will be gore. And there will be SMUT.
> 
> I also want to put out there that the subjects that I put into these books aren’t meant to make sport of any who go through extreme hardships, therefore please don’t get angry if you find something you don’t like. If you don’t like the topics then don’t read, especially if you deal with depression, anxiety, trauma, etc.
> 
> But if you are ok with all of that, then read on! And comment on what you think, I appreciate it. Hope you enjoyed the first chapter, and keep reading!


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